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Shortly after this we ran under the Rayo's stern she was lying to. "Mr Crowfoot what have you been after? I have a great mind to report you, sir." "We could not help it, sir," sung out Crowfoot in a most dolorous tone, in answer to the captain of the frigate; 'we have been nearly taken, sir, by a privateer, sir an immense vessel, sir, that sails, like a witch, sir."
The pace became terrific, the excitement so intense that not a sound was heard but that of racing hoofs. The horses swept onward like projectiles, the same smoothness, the same suggestion of eternal flight. The bodies were extended until the tense muscles rose under the satin coats. Vitriolo's eyes flashed viciously; El Rayo's strained with determination.
Suddenly El Rayo's vaquero raised his hand, and down came the maddening quirto, first on one side, then on the other. The spurs dug; the blood spurted. The crowd burst into a howl of delight as their favourite responded.
Two hundred paces from the finish he was at the black's flanks; one hundred and fifty, he was at his girth; one hundred, and the horses were neck and neck; and still the quirto whirred down on El Rayo's heaving flanks, the spurs dug deeper into his quivering flesh.
Vitriolo's nostrils were as red as angry craters; El Rayo's fluttered like paper in the wind. Three-quarters of the race was run, and the rider of Vitriolo could tell by the sound of the hoof-beats behind him that he had a good lead of at least two lengths over the Northern champion. A smile curled the corners of his heavy lips; the race was his already.
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