But they were as nothing to what they gradually worked up to--the climax--the
great race.
It was afternoon when all was ready for this race, and the sage was bright
gray in the westering sun. Everybody was resting, waiting. The tense quiet of
the riders seemed to settle upon the whole assemblage. Only the thoroughbreds
were restless. They quivered and stamped and tossed their small, fine heads.
They knew what was going to happen. They wanted to run. Blacks, bays, and
whites were the predominating colors; and the horses and mustangs were alike
in those points of race and speed and spirit that proclaimed them
thoroughbreds.
Bostil himself took the covering off his favorite. Sage King was on edge. He
stood out strikingly in contrast with the other horses. His sage-gray body was
as sleek and shiny as satin. He had been trained to the hour. He tossed his
head as he champed the bit, and every moment his muscles rippled under his
fine skin. Proud, mettlesome, beautiful!
Sage King was the favorite in the betting, the Indians, who were ardent
gamblers, plunging heavily on him.
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