The spectators shouted with laughter at the sight.

"There goes somebody!" cried Walter.

One of the ponies had fouled the first hurdle and gone down, plowing the dust with its nose, while the cowboy made a fairly graceful dive through the air, landing on his head and shoulders. The riders directly behind him were obliged to hurdle pony and rider, which they did without mishap to either. Stacy, fortunately was ahead, else he too might have come a cropper.

This left a field of eleven, all of whom were bunched, their mounts almost rubbing sides. By this time the dust cloud was so dense that the spectators were able to make nothing at all of what was going on at the other end of the course.

"I hope the youngsters are all right," said Phipps a little anxiously, for the race was one of the roughest he had ever seen, and then the young miner was not much of a horseman, which made the contest seem much more hazardous to him than it really was.

"They're coming back," shouted a voice.

The turn had been made, but at the expense of two riders, whose mounts, less sure footed than the rest, had gone down in the sharp whirl for the home stretch.

The prize in this contest was to be a handsome telescope repeating rifle, and the rivalry for it was keen. The battle would be a stern one, and it was a foregone conclusion that the best horse would win.

Stacy Brown had not leaned far enough in at the turn, his saddle girth slipping a little as a result. He felt the saddle give a little beneath him, but did not realize what had happened until the pony had straightened away on the home stretch. The saddle then slipped still further under the weight of the rider.

Stacy threw almost the whole force of his weight on the right stirrup to offset the list of the saddle on the other side, where the stirrup had gone down too far for him to reach. And the first hurdle found the lad clinging desperately to the pony's mane with one hand, the jolt of the jump nearly dislocating his neck as the animal took it.

The youthful rider, finding himself safely over, uttered a series of shrill yells and began urging on the pony with quick, short encouraging blows of the quirt, though the blows were not heavy enough to hurt the tough little beast at all. It was used to much more serious treatment.

Somehow the animal seemed bent on doing its best, though the more it strove to reach the goal, the greater was the fat boy's torture.

Stacy Brown's grit was aroused. He seemed to have come into his own at last.

"They laughed at me," he muttered. "I'll show them that Chunky Brown isn't a tenderfoot. Even if I don't win the race, there will be some others who will finish after I get through." He was reasonably certain of this from his present position. "But I hope I don't fall in," he grinned.

By this time the dust caused by their first trip over the course, had settled so that the spectators were enabled to get a view of the last quarter of the race. And they all admitted, without exception, that it was a real race that they were watching.

Over the last hurdle went two ponies in beautiful curving leaps, ahead of all the others. With their cowboy riders they took the obstruction neck and neck. A full length behind them rode Stacy with the rest of the field strung out to his rear.

The spectators were able to identify the black now from their point of vantage, and Stacy could hear their cheers, though unaware that these were for him. Tad Butler, second to him in the race, was getting every ounce of speed from his pony that the animal possessed. Yet instead of feeling chagrin over the fact that his companion was out-footing him, Tad was elated.

"Go it, Chunky! Go it!" he encouraged.

"I am going," floated back to Tad faintly, causing him to laugh so heartily that he was nearly unhorsed when his pony rose to the hurdle.

As Stacy's mount cleared the last barrier, the fat boy fell forward on the pony's neck, which he grasped wildly, for the saddle in that final leap had, with disheartening suddeness, given way beneath him, slipping clear down under the animal's stomach.

Nothing daunted, Stacy, with his newly discovered grit, worked both spurs vigorously, eyes staring straight ahead of him over the head of his fleeing pony.

They were almost at the finish. Now the dust of the two cowboy leaders in the race did not smite him in the face as heretofore. He was too close up with them for that.

All at once the lad realized that he was gaining. Excitement among the spectators ran high. Observing his predicament and understanding full well the grit he was exhibiting, they were yelling like mad.

Chunky began to yell also, uttering a series of shrill whoops, using voice and spurs incessantly, urging the pony to the goal.

The black pony, almost gray with the dust that had settled on his sleek, glossy coat, forged ahead in a n.o.ble sprint with head on a level with its back, nose reaching for the finish.

A roar of applause sounded in the fat boy's ears. Yells, cat calls and shrill whoops rent the air.

All at once a pistol barked, the black pony's feet plowed the dust, bringing it to a sharp halt.

The suddenness of the movement caused Chunky's feet to rise straight up into the air. For a few brief seconds he was standing on his head on the pony's neck like a circus performer.

Then, as the animal lowered its head, the rider toppled over, still clinging to the neck of his mount. Such a chorus of laughter and shouting the Jessup ranch had never known before.

"How is it, Mr. Umpire?" piped Stacy, releasing one hand from the pony's neck and raising it questioningly.

"This isn't a baseball game, young fellow," jeered the foreman. "This is a hoss race and you've won it. The black wins and you get the rifle."

The grimy hand that the lad had held aloft still clung to the remnants of the roast sandwich that he had carried throughout race.

CHAPTER XVIII

TAD WINS A ROPING CONTEST

In their enthusiasm two of the ranchers hoisted Chunky to their shoulders and marched about singing. Others fell in behind them until fully half the spectators had joined the procession. Chunky leered down at his companions as he pa.s.sed them and winked solemnly.

"I didn't suppose he could ride like that," marveled Tom Phipps.

"Neither did any of the rest of us," answered Walter.

"I never saw a more plucky piece of work in my life."

Tad came up to where they were, laughing heartily.

"Doesn't that beat all, Walt?"

"It certainly does."

"Our friends who were defeated do not seem to appreciate the humor of it, though," interjected the young engineer.

"No, not very sportsmanlike, is it? Who is that fellow with whom Chunky's compet.i.tors are talking?"

"Name is Cravath. Queer sort of a chap."

"Haven't I seen him about the Red Star?" asked Tad.

"Yes, no doubt. He is a checker at the mine. He and his wife and daughter have a cabin out near the Ruby Rock that you are so much interested in. I know very little about him--"

"Don't like his looks at all," decided Tad.

"No, I never warmed up to him very much myself. I understand he is not very popular among the men, either. But I guess that is because he wins their money in games of chance."