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The gelding stared around, wild-eyed. He had a notion to bolt, leaving me there, shoulder-deep in chaparral, but I went toward him slowly, and called his name softly. Fortunately, he was not hurt.
    At the last moment, as the gelding was about to change his mind and bolt, I grabbed for the reins and caught them. I sidled over to a mesquite bush, got one foot in a stirrup, and swung up.
    I flicked Sixto with the Spanish spurs, which had wheels bigger than my hand, and we went out, crashing through the last of the chaparral and onto the open mesa. I glanced back at the other riders, hoping that none of them had seen me fall. They were just coming into view.
    I flicked Sixto again, this time with both spurs, and gave him all his head. I raised myself a little in the saddle and leaned low and far out over the gelding's neck. I could hear hoofs behind me now. I held my breath.
    We were better than halfway across the mesa when I glanced over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of a silver-studded jacket and a flash of red pantaloons. Far off in front of me I saw a crowd in front of the big gate. Then I heard the sound of cheering.
    The thud of hoofs was now close upon me. It could be no one except Don Roberto. In spite of his fat little hands he was a fine rider. How he would love to beat me! I still wondered if he had seen me tossed into the chaparral. It would be a shame to lose the race because of this mischance. A good horseman would never let his horse blunder into a coyote's hole.
    The cheering grew louder. I could see my father now; at least the broad sombrero with the silver spangles on it. I thought I felt the hot breath of Don Roberto's horse. This could not be. It must be my own breath that I felt. Then I no longer heard the thud of hoofs. I glanced back, but Don Roberto was still there, not gaining on me, not losing either.
    His horse came on steadily, close, closer, then even with my gelding's flank. I could have reached back and touched its nose. I could have given his horse a backhanded slap with my braided quirt. But I held the quirt in the hand the burro clam had injured.
    "
Hola!
" shouted Don Roberto.
    The shout seemed to sound in my ear, but I still was in the lead by half a length. The hitching rack was near. It was hidden by the guests, who were waving their hats and handkerchiefs. The race would not be decided until the horses were tied to the hitching rack. This meant that I must ride as close as I could to the rack and lead the horse the rest of the way. If I were riding Tiburón, this part would be easy.
    The crowd began to scatter, leaving the space in front of the rack empty. Don Roberto's horse came up even with me. Don Roberto shouted words that I couldn't catch, but it was a taunt of some kind.
    I made a tight half-circle and pulled up when I was still a dozen paces from the hitching rack. My gelding's hoofs slid on the loose earth and a small cloud of dust flew up and blinded me for a moment. I held the reins in my good hand and turned the gelding toward the rack.
    Don Roberto had ridden a few steps past me. He brought his horse up stiff-legged, and was on the ground at once. There was a din of voices, but I made out my father's voice shouting, "
Andale, andale!
" at me.
    Don Roberto would have won the race if his gelding had not reared as he jumped to the ground. I reached the hitching rack and tied the reins in a hard knot before he could quiet his horse. He smiled and held out his hand. I was surprised at what a nice smile he had. I had not noticed it before.
    My father rushed over to kiss me. He put an arm around my shoulder and led me to where his friend Don César stood.
    "When do you deliver the cows and horses?" my father said.
    "How many did we wager?" Don César asked, as if he didn't know and didn't care.
    "Twelve good riding horses," Don Saturnino said. "Three hundred and fifty cattle."
    "Three hundred," Don César corrected him.
    "Three hundred, but no boneyards."
    I wondered what use