FROM ONE TO ANOTHER
ByEARL C. McCAIN
Author of "Desert Justice," etc.
THE PONY EXPRESS IS NO MORE; BUT THE WEST STILL PRODUCES HORSES OF THAT NEVER-DIE BREED, AND MEN WHO DO NOT KNOW WHEN TO QUIT. HENCE THIS RACE OVER THE SANTA FÉ TRAIL HAS ALL THE THRILLS OF THE OLD DAYS—AND A FEW NEW ONES
John Dillon's first knowledge of the Pony Express Relay Race had come from reading the newspapers. It was to be held in celebration of the old Pony Express, and the horses taking part in it would follow the old Santa Fe Trail from St. Joseph, Mo., to Santa Fe, N. M., a distance of approximately eight hundred miles.
While the race was to be run by picked relay teams of horses, the real rivalry would be between the five big express companies, which had, in a way, sprung from the old Pony Express when it had been succeeded by the more modern methods of handling express and mail. Each of the express companies was organizing a team, and the honor of winning would go to the team that first delivered a registered package of express at Santa Fe.
The entire country was interested in the race, not only because of the traditions connected with the Pony Express, but because it was a sporting event of a different type. Dillon's interest was deeper than that. He was the owner of Sagamore, a magnificent black stallion that had already won fame as a long distance runner, and he had been expecting an offer to enter his horse in one of the teams ever since the race had been announced.
The day before he had received a telegram from John P. Hammond, president of the Dell-Argo Express Company, and he had come in from his foothill ranch to meet Hammond at the Brown hotel in Denver.
A casual observer, watching the two men as they shook hands in the hotel lobby, would probably have been struck by the similarity between them—even though they represented vastly different spheres of life. Hammond was the typical man of big business, well-groomed and modestly attired, his appearance even more distinguished by a faint tinge of gray in his hair.
Dillon was no larger than Hammond, yet he possessed the same marks of character strength. His weight would have been guessed at one hundred and forty pounds, and his eyes were steel-blue and sharp, surrounded by fine wrinkles—something that distinguishes the man who has lived on the sage-dotted mesas or the desert. The movement of his lithe body, as he stepped forward to meet Hammond, marked him as a man accustomed to a life in the saddle.
As might have been expected, Hammond came straight to the point.
"I represent the Dell-Argo Express Company, Mr. Dillon," he began, "and we are particularly anxious to win this race because our company was really the pioneer express company of the West. I understand you have a great horse, and my purpose in coming here is to offer you five thousand dollars to handle the Dell-Argo team and enter your own horse. The company will pay all expenses, and in addition, you will have a chance at the five thousand dollar purse."
"What other horses have you?"
"None, at this time. That will be in your hands. It is only fair to tell you that you may have trouble securing suitable horses for the race. Dan Mortley, who, I understand, bore a shady reputation in racing circles before he was made a superintendent of the Continental Express Company through the influence of a wealthy uncle, is managing their team. I'm sure that the Continental company wouldn't permit any crookedness in the race if they knew of it, but they're letting Mortley handle their team because he understands horse-racing, and are allowing him plenty of money. Frankly, I think Mortley intends to win by fair or foul means. He has already prevented us from getting several horses we wanted."
"How about the other express companies?"
"Oh, they will have teams entered, but it is generally believed that Mortley's team will make a walk-away of the race, since he already has engaged many of the best endurance runners in the country. Do you happen to know of any other horses that you can get?"
"Yes, two," Dillon stated, then with a smile added, "and that reminds me that I had better accept your offer at once."
"Good," Hammond replied. "I'll leave for St. Joseph tonight, to complete arrangements, and to secure some more horses for you. Get those two you mentioned, and better ship them as soon as possible. The race is to begin Thursday morning, April 3, the anniversary of the first trip of the Pony Express."
They discussed plans a few minutes longer, then with a Dell-Argo check for one thousand dollars in his pocket, Dillon left Hammond and hurried out to send a telegram.
Dillon had tried not to appear eager when accepting Hammond's offer and check, but the truth was that he was elated. For the first time in his life he was seriously in need of money and the offer had come at an opportune time.
A few months before he had happened upon what seemed a splendid buy on a herd of cattle—one so good that in order to close the deal he had mortgaged his ranch for ten thousand dollars. He had considered himself lucky in getting the cattle at such a price, and had planned on borrowing enough money on the herd to take up the note when it became due. Then had come a sudden epidemic of the foot and mouth disease that had wiped out most of his herd, and caused the Government agents to kill the remainder to prevent the disease from spreading.
Dillon had expected no trouble in renewing his mortgage when that came due, but to his surprise, the bank had refused this. In a final effort to save his ranch, Dillon had been forced to give another mortgage on his most valued possession—Sagamore. Two more efforts to raise money had failed, and now, unless he could take up the mortgage on Sagamore when it fell due, he would lose the horse. Under the circumstances, Hammond's offer was providential.
In telling Hammond that he knew of two horses for his team, Dillon's first thought had been of Patsy, a game little cow-horse that had raced Sagamore to the very finish in a former race. Patsy was owned by Laramie Jones, at Laramie, Wyoming, and Dillon sent a wire to Jones a few minutes after accepting Hammond's offer.
The second horse was Imperator, a great white stallion owned by Gus Workland, of Denver, and Dillon made a prompt visit to the Workland stables. Imperator was getting old, but he was dead game, and he had the ability to hold a good speed for a long distance. Dillon lost no time in making arrangements with Workland to ship the horse in plenty of time for the race.
Early the next morning Dillon received an answer to his wire to Jones, accepting his offer for the little cow-horse. Satisfied with the start he had made in gathering a team, Dillon returned to his ranchthat noon. The following day he loaded Sagamore into the express car that was to take them to St. Joseph.
Hammond met Dillon and his horse upon their arrival in the city where the race was to start, but he brought disappointing news. In spite of his efforts, he had secured only two horses. One of these was Speedaway—one of the fastest horses of the year—but the other, a big bay called Pathfinder, was a horse that Dillon knew well. The bay horse could run for a time, but he simply lacked the endurance to match his courage in a long race.
"I have wired or seen at least twenty owners," Hammond stated, "but Mortley has beaten us to most of them. Besides the horses he intends to use, he has taken options on most of the other horses that would be suitable for this race."
Dillon nodded quietly, and Hammond, in a more optimistic tone, went on, "We'll have a chance, however, even with only five horses. The Continental is the only company that will have more than ten horses in their string, and the rest of the express companies have made arrangements with the railroads to move the horses and riders along the route as they finish each lap of the race."
Dillon couldn't exactly share Hammond's enthusiasm. He knew that very few horses can recover their strength and endurance while traveling in an express car. But he didn't mention his doubts. Instead, he talked with Hammond a few minutes longer, then went to see that his horse had been properly cared for.
Jones, with his little roan horse, arrived in St. Joseph that night and came to the hotel just as Dillon and Hammond had finished dinner. The same old quizzical smile that had won Dillon's friendship during a former race was on the Wyoming rider's face as he shook hands and was introduced to Hammond.
"I'm with you, all the way," Jones said, when Dillon had told him of the race and the handicap under which their team must run. "But we'll sure have to keep an eye on that Mortley gang. Mortley's crooked, even if he has got the confidence of the Continental officials. He had the nerve to try to bribe me to throw the race to their team in case we are near them at the finish."
"What did you say to him?" Hammond asked.
"I told him to go to hell."
Hammond and Dillon both smiled, then Jones continued.
"That ain't the worst of it, though. He found out you had leased Imperator, and he's taken the horse away from us. Workland's a hog for money, and Mortley offered him twice what you did and agreed to run the horse only the last lap of the race. Mortley boasted that he may not have to use Imperator at all, but he's willing to pay that money just to keep us from using the horse."
That news was a bitter disappointment to Dillon. He had reasoned that of his string only Sagamore, Speedaway and Imperator were capable of any great speed. Pathfinder might make a good showing, and he might not, while Patsy, while fast and game to the core, was, after all, only a cow-pony and hardly to be expected to more than hold his own against the Continental thoroughbreds.
Pathfinder and Speedaway arrived the day before the race was to begin, and Dillon began carrying out his plans. He sent Jones to Valley Falls with Patsy, a distance of fifty miles, and Pathfinder on to Topeka. He intended to start the race with Speedaway and hold Sagamore until the contest was well under way.
The starting time of the race had been set at seven o'clock the next morning, but Dillon was awakened long before that time by the ringing of his telephone. A voice over the wire told him that one of his horses had been injured, and he finished dressing as he ran to the stables where the horses were being kept.
He found several men gathered about one of his stalls when he arrived and learned that it was Speedaway the message had been about. The horse was limping from pain each time he stepped, and his right foreleg was badly swollen. Speedaway's rider, who had volunteered to sleep near the horse that night, exhibited a small piece of blood-stained piano-wire as he tried to explain.
"They must have got to Speedaway some time yesterday, because I rather thought he was favoring that foot a little when I exercised him last night. He woke me up by kicking his stall a little while ago, and when I examined his leg, I found this drawn tight around it, just under the fetlock. It had cut into the hide and caused the tendon to start swelling."
The anger that every lover of horses feels at seeing a noble animal injured—perhaps ruined for life—surged through Dillon as he examined Speedaway's leg. But he said nothing. The horse was out of the race for several days, he knew, but he realized the impossibility of finding the guilty person before the start of the contest. He found Sagamore uninjured, then called a veterinary to care for Speedaway and returned to his hotel to alter his plans.
Hammond was dismayed at the news of Speedaway's injury, and after breakfast, went to report the matter to the race officials. Dillon settled his account at the hotel, then returned to the stable and walked Sagamore to the open space surrounding a stone monument from which the race was to start.
Through the iron bars surrounding the memorial, Dillon read the inscription it bore: "Dedicated to the Pony Express, which started from this point April 3, 1860."
As Dillon dismounted in front of the railing Hammond came forward to meet him, carrying a small express pouch which bore a figure "3." This bag was to contain the registered parcel of express and would be passed from rider to rider of the Dell-Argo team, Hammond explained, and the figure would identify the team. Dillon, glancing at the other riders, noticed that each carried a similar pouch, though the bags bore different numbers.
"There's Mortley," Hammond remarked, indicating a sharp-faced, heavily-built man who had walked over to a slim sorrel horse. Dillon studied Mortley as the Continental team manager stood talking to the rider of the sorrel, and he decided that Jones' summary of Mortley had been correct. Mortley's face showed cunning and cruelty—the kind of a man who might injure a horse in order to win a race.
The contest had aroused nation-wide interest, and Sagamore, because of his great size and beauty, drew the attention of the crowd that had gathered to witness the start. The horse towered above the other animals waiting to enter the race, but his great body was evenly proportioned—the withers high and the muscles long and clean—hinting of the speed and endurance of which he was capable.
The mayor of the city and a grizzled old man, the latter once a Pony Express rider himself, had been selected as official starters of the race, and a hush fell upon the crowd as they arrived. The mayor climbed to the top of the monument, then called the express company officials and the riders closer as he made a short address, dealing with the history of the Pony Express and the significance of the occasion.
Outside the iron railing a clerk was seated at a table on which lay an open ledger, and in this, Dillon and the other riders wrote their names and the names of their horses. Then each rider was given a small, registered parcel, the horses were lined up before the railing, and at a signal from the old express rider, the race was on.
All five of the riders were experienced men, so there was no bolting of horses at the start. Instead, they cantered down the city streets to the outskirts, then picked up a bit more speed as they swung out upon the historic old trail. Realizing that Sagamore's great strength would probably be tested to the utmost before the race ended, Dillon held the big stallion back a trifle, though he could easily have taken the lead.
The great highway extends almost due west from St. Joseph for some distance, then dips gradually to the long bridge that spans the Missouri River. Sagamore's hoofs beat a lone rhythm as he followed the other horses across the bridge, then Dillon allowed him to lengthen his stride sufficiently to follow them closely. Near the outskirts of Atchison, the first change station, Dillon spoke to the big horse and let him speed up so as to reach the station on even terms with the other horses.
The other teams changed horses and riders at Atchison, but Dillon was to ride on through. He swung from the saddle to register his package and secure a drink for his horse, then resumed his ride. The rider of the Interstate team had been slow in getting away from the change station, and Dillon overtook him a few miles from the outskirts of the city.
A mile farther on Dillon and the Interstate rider came upon a bay gelding that had loosened a shoe and was striking his leg when he stepped. This horse belonged to the Overland team. The rider carried no tools, but Dillon did, and it required but a moment to remove the horse's front shoes. The bay, once the dangerous shoe had been removed, had good speed,and the three horses traveled together into Valley Falls, overtaking the National Express Company rider just before they reached the city limits.
Jones was waiting at the Valley Falls station with the game little roan and Dillon transferred the Dell-Argo package to him. Dillon stood watching a moment, as Jones, cowboy fashion, twisted in his saddle to wave, then he turned to Hammond, who had been waiting at the station.
"How's Speedaway?" he inquired, since Hammond had remained in St. Joseph for a short time after the start of the race.
"Out of the race, except perhaps at the very end. The tendon is badly swollen, but the veterinary hopes to have him in shape to run within three or four days. By the way, I had a talk with John Bristol, president of the Continental, before I left St. Joseph. He thinks we're mistaken about Mortley having anything to do with injuring Speedaway, but he assured me that he'll have the judges keep a close watch on Mortley the remainder of the race. He says that Mortley has spent a lot of company money and bet all the cash he could raise himself on the Continental team, but it's a certainty the company won't back him in any crookedness."
Hammond had arranged for an express car on the afternoon train, and after caring for his horse and hiring the city marshall to guard the car while he was away, Dillon and Hammond ate lunch at a nearby restaurant, then returned to the depot. The afternoon train took the car into Topeka on good time, and Dillon looked up Pathfinder's rider, a slim youth by the name of Montauk, to make arrangements for Pathfinder to run to Council Grove, a distance of three change stations.
It was late afternoon when the first horse, carrying an Interstate rider, raced up to the Topeka change station and registered his package. Jones came in second, smiling with satisfaction that his little roan had outgamed three faster horses. Pathfinder at once set out for Council Grove with the Dell-Argo package, and an hour later, Dillon and Jones, with their horses, were asleep in the speeding express car, resting while the opportunity offered.
Hammond had arranged accommodations for his riders and horses along the route, but Dillon ignored the hotels when he reached Council Grove. He had already experienced the underhand methods of Dan Mortley, so he finished his night's sleep on a cot in Sagamore's stall.
The riders were expected in Council Grove about eight o'clock the next morning, so Dillon took his time at breakfast. Then, making sure that Sagamore was ready, he walked the horse to the change station. Pathfinder was the third horse to arrive at the station, and after instructing Montauk about shipping his horse ahead, Dillon and Sagamore again took up the race.
The contest had developed into a steady grind by this time, each team fighting to gain and hold the lead. The National rider had led out of Council Grove—riding a trim iron-gray mare—but Mortley had now begun to use his faster horses. When Sagamore's steady gait enabled him to overtake one of the leading horses within the first ten miles, it proved to be the National mare.
Sagamore was running easily, his long, free lope clipping off the miles. It was twenty-six miles to Herrington, the next change station, and he allowed Sagamore to show a bit more speed in the last five miles. Even then, the Continental had already changed and sent its package on ahead when Dillon reached the station.
From Herrington the trail swings south to Marion, another stretch of twenty-six miles. South of Lincolnville, the halfway point, Sagamore caught up with the Continental rider. Realizing that this rider would not yield his place without a bitter race that might injure both horses, Dillon was content to ride into Marion on even terms.
Another Continental horse was waiting at the Marion station—this one a fine bay stallion that stood quivering with eagerness. Sagamore had already run fifty-two miles that day, but Dillon knew the great beast's power, so he clung steadily to the fast pace set by the bay. Mile after mile the two horses galloped down the dust-swept highway, then the bay began to weaken from the terrific pace and Dillon felt the elation of knowing that he led in the contest.
The shaggy little cow-horse was waiting with a thoroughbred racer of the Continental string when Dillon rode up to the station at Canton and transferred the registered parcel to his team-mate.
"Somebody tried to get into Patsy's stall last night," Jones said, patting a gun that swung on his hip. "I got a permit from the sheriff here and strapped on my old hardware. The man that tries to hurt my horse will be askin' St. Peter who won this race."
"Good," Dillon replied. "I'm packing a gun myself, and I'll use it before I'll let anyone cripple my horse."
From McPherson, across the wheat fields of Kansas, the lead alternated between the Continental and Dell-Argo teams. Patsy lost the lead in his lap of the race, but his rider turned the package over to Pathfinder on good time at Ellinwood. The lean bay horse surprised both Dillon and Hammond by leading the race into Garfield.
Sagamore made the run to Dodge City that night and still held the lead, but the faster horses of the Continental string forged ahead of Patsy the next day. At Garden City, Pathfinder had cut down the Continental lead to less than an hour. Dillon crowded Sagamore as much as he dared that day, but Mortley was changing horses every twenty-five miles, and he still retained the lead at Lamar, Colorado.
At La Junta, where Dillon had to wait for a change of trains, he received a telegram from Hammond, at Trinidad, that increased his confidence of winning. Speedaway had recovered from his injury and would arrive at Las Vegas that night. Dillon replied by wire, requesting Hammond to send Speedaway to the last change station at Glorieta, N. M., from where he could carry the package into Santa Fe. Dillon had wanted that honor for Sagamore, but he thought it better to let a fresh horse race against Imperator at the finish.
Jones brought the Dell-Argo package through Las Animas and La Junta and swung southward toward the New Mexico boundary, ending a long, hard ride at Timpas. Dillon was waiting with his big stallion at Trinidad when the telephone brought news that seemed to end the Dell-Argo chances of winning. Pathfinder had given out after leaving Hoehne, the first town north of Trinidad, and was coming in at a walk. The rules permitted a rider to go back to meet a crippled team-mate, so Dillon quickly saddled Sagamore and rode back.
Montauk was heart-broken that his horse had failed after making such a good showing earlier in the race, but Dillon blamed neither the horse nor his rider. Pathfinder's condition showed that he had simply collapsed. With a quick handshake that means much between good sportsmen. Dillon took the package and turned back toward Trinidad. He was an hour behind the Continental rider when he registered at Trinidad, but he was still determined to win if possible.
From Trinidad, the trail enters the mountains, and here Sagamore was at his best. Without urging and without holding back, Dillon let the big horse set his own pace. Power is what counts most when a horse is climbing steadily, and Sagamore's mighty chest was the main factor in the long climb to Raton Pass—the long passage through the crest of the mountains. About halfway through the Pass, Sagamore overtook and passed the Continental horse—a fine animal, but one unaccustomed to such travel.
Several airplanes had been following the running horses during the latter part of the race, and Dillon had learned that these planes were covering the race for newspaper associations and motion picture weeklies. Just outside Raton, Dillon heard the drone of an engine overhead and a shaft of light from an airplane caught and held the big horse and his rider for an instant. Dillon merely supposed this was one of the news planes, but he learned more of it when he arrived at the Raton change station.
"See anything of an airplane as you came in?" the station man inquired.
"Yes, just outside Raton. Why?"
"Nothing in particular, only Mortley, the manager of the Continental team, was seen talking to an aviator at Trinidad, and the judges have noticed that one plane follows the horses at night."
Dillon gave the airplane no further thought as he registered his package, and resumed his way. His principal worry was that Patsy, worn out from his long run of the preceding day, would be unable to hold his own against the Continental horses that day. He resolved to save the little roan every possible mile and let Sagamore gallop freely as he rode from Raton.
From Raton to Maxwell the highway passes no towns and few habitations. Mile after mile slipped by as the big horse, with the same gameness that had characterized the Pony Express carriers in bygone days, clung grimly to his pace. Past Maxwell and on to Springer, Dillon rode, turning the package over to Jones long after daylight had come.
Dillon had intended to relieve Patsy at Las Vegas that afternoon, but he changedhis mind when he saw the condition of the little horse at Springer.
Hammond had chartered an engine to take their express car to Las Vegas at once, but as Dillon led Sagamore into the car, he said, "I guess I'd better stop at Watros. Patsy isn't much on speed, and he's about gone his limit at fast running. Speedaway will be waiting to finish at Glorieta, so I'd better relieve Jones as quickly as possible."
"But, good Lord, man, how about your own horse? He's carried the brunt of the race so far, and he's just finished running all night long."
"I know," Dillon replied, a touch of sentiment in his voice, "but that's our only chance. We must reach Glorieta on even terms or Imperator will nose out Speedaway in the final stretch."
As Dillon had predicted, Patsy lost time and the lead in the race during the fifty miles from Springer, though Dillon did not know of this until Hammond awakened him that afternoon. The airplanes and the telephone were keeping a close check on the race and reports were being sent ahead. At Colmor, Patsy had still retained the lead, but north of Nolan the Continental horse had passed him and a fresh horse starting at Wagon Mound had added to the gain.
Dillon, Hammond and a Continental rider were waiting at the Watros station when an airplane swept over the crest of a hill and landed in an open space near the change station. The pilot and a camera-man climbed from the plane and selected a position from which to film the arrival of the horses. Then a big black, with four white stockings, rounded a turn and raced up to the station.
Dillon gave a start as he recognized the horse. It was August Long's Conquest, one of the greatest racers on the American turf, and Dillon realized anew the limits to which Mortley had gone in order to win.
The waiting Continental rider, mounted on a well-built sorrel, was on his way almost as soon as Conquest's rider had touched the ground. Then came an agonizing wait for Dillon. He knew that Patsy could not be expected to cope with the speed of Conquest after what the little horse had already done, yet it hurt him to think that each leap of the sorrel was carrying the Continental package farther and farther ahead while the big, patient stallion could only wait.
Ten minutes, then fifteen passed, while Dillon and Hammond stood waiting. The watch-hands showed that the Continental rider had a twenty-minute lead when the little roan, lathered with perspiration and trembling in every muscle, yet still running, galloped up to the station.
"We done our best," Jones said, stumbling as he climbed from the saddle. "I nosed out their first horse, but that black devil was too fast for us."
"We know that, Laramie," Dillon answered, and leaving Hammond to explain further, he leaped upon Sagamore. His last view of the station, as Sagamore swept round a turn in the street, was of a worn out little horse standing with outspread legs and heaving sides.
Dillon knew that a twenty-minute lead meant miles to the Continental team, and he determined to overcome that handicap as soon as possible. Accordingly, he sent Sagamore forward at a fast lope. At Las Vegas, which he reached just at dusk, the ledger showed that the Continental had registered and changed horses twelve minutes ahead of him.
The gain encouraged Dillon and he left Las Vegas confident of overtaking the rival team before reaching the next change station. But he was doomed to disappointment. At Chappelle, he found that the other team was twenty-five minutes ahead of him, and that a relief rider had gone back on the trail to meet his team-mate.
The unexpected gain puzzled Dillon. He knew that the Continental horses were fast, and he began to wonder if, in his great desire to win, he had overtaxed his own horse. He knew that days of hard, steady running—with sleep broken by the swaying of railway cars—will wear down the endurance of any horse. And yet, strangely, Sagamore seemed to be running easily.
As a test, he spoke to the horse and the speed with which Sagamore responded caused him to tighten the reins a trifle. Fulton was the next change station, and Dillon found encouragement there. He had cut down the Continental lead to thirteen minutes, and once past the change station, he sent Sagamore forward at racing speed.
A few miles out of Glorieta and the sun began tinting the sky, making the road safer, even if it meant no increase in Sagamore's speed. Daylight showed the perspiration lathered about the horse's shoulders and flanks, while the sound of his breathing told Dillon that the strain of the race was showing on the horse.
Except for a little group of men about the change station, the town of Glorieta was wrapped in slumber as the big horse thundered across a plank bridge at the outskirts and came to a halt at the station.
Speedaway was nowhere in sight, and Dillon caught the station man's arm as he asked, "Where's the other Dell-Argo horse?"
"We haven't seen any other horses—except the one belonging to the Continental team, and he left here two minutes ago," was the answer. Another man had brought a bucket of water and was holding it to Sagamore's mouth. With a quick decision, Dillon checked the horse from drinking, then scrawled his name on the ledger and leaped back into the saddle.
"It's up to us, old fellow," he said to the horse as he turned into the highway and rode from the town, followed by the cheers of those at the change station.
Just outside Glorieta the trail swings in a great half-circle to pass a mountain, then zig-zags between hills and gulches almost all the way into Santa Fe. Through narrow passes and around sharp turns the black horse raced, his sureness of foot saving himself and his rider time after time.
The last few miles of the road is straight, stretching like a boulevard to the city limits, and it was on this road that Dillon caught his first glimpse of Imperator. The grand old horse was half a mile ahead, doing his best as he had always done, and Dillon knew that the final test of speed must come in that stretch.
He leaned over Sagamore's glistening neck, talking to him and urging him to the utmost, realizing that the loss of this race would mean the loss of his horse—a horse that he loved like a brother. The white horse had courage, and he made a brilliant try in that last mile, but the youth of Sagamore was too much for him. Up and up crept the black head until it caught and passed the white nose, then Sagamore led the way through Santa Fe's ancient streets to the judges' stand.
Hammond and Jones were both waiting when Dillon leaped from his horse in front of the clicking cameras and the cheering crowd to deliver his package to the judges.
Then, suddenly aware of his own weariness, he placed a hand on the shoulders of Hammond and Jones and asked, "What happened to Speedaway?"
"His car was brought on through to Santa Fe," Hammond replied. "Either the train crew mistook their orders and failed to leave it at Glorieta, or Mortley bribed them to do that."
"Well, we've won anyway," Dillon said, smiling quietly.
"We had already," Hammond stated. "The judges were suspicious of that airplane following the horses at night and had the trail watched last night. They found that Mortley had hired that aviator to take the Continental package from his rider between Las Vegas and Chappelle last night and carry it ahead to his next rider, who rode back to get it. That forfeited the race, and ends Mortley's connection with the Continental, because Bristol discharged him as soon as he heard of it. You'd have won the race if you had walked Sagamore all the way from Las Vegas."
And Dillon, as he stroked Sagamore's glistening mane, understood the mysterious gain that his great horse had striven so hard to overcome during the night.
Here are half a dozen easy tests for diamonds. Real diamonds will stand up under all of them, but no imitation can come through any of them. First, try a file; if it makes a scratch the stone is an imitation. Second, cover the stone with borax, heat it and drop it into cold water; an imitation will burst, but a real diamond will not be harmed. Third, drop a little hydrofluoric acid on it; this will dissolve it if it is not genuine. Fourth, drop it into a tumbler of water; if real it will still shine brilliantly. Fifth, put a drop of water on it; if the water spreads it is not a real diamond, but if the drop retains its globular shape the gem is real. Sixth, make a pencil dot on a piece of white paper, with a lens focus the light upon the dot, hold the stone near the paper; if the dot can be seen clearly through the stone it is a diamond, but if the dot appears foggy or duplicated the stone is false.