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into True’s thoughts. He led his lithe mare, brown as sandy loam in a just plowed field, to the starting line, and turned to grin at True. “You sure his daddy wasn’t one of them damn gators back in the swamp? That head alone ought to weigh him down.”
    It was true that Firetail had an unusually large head, that his legs were knobby and thick as tree limbs. His chest was too heavy, he stood too tall, and carried too much weight in his withers. But there was one other thing about the stallion that did not show. Pure, sweet, and simple, he liked to run fast.
    What True had seen in the gangly colt three years earlier he never was able to say, but when his dam had died in the swampland around Solitary, True had taken him as his own, named him Firetail, and raised him. He had fed him, trained him, nursed him though sickness, and seen him grow strong and healthy, if not exactly picturesque. Like his sire, Firetail could be mean and irascible, and had a temper so unpredictable that only True might approach him without being wary of a nip or sudden kick. As he grew, though, it became evident that Firetail’s liabilities were also his advantages. The too-wide chest housed huge lungs. His height let him cover a distance in incredible, yard-eating strides. His legs, so heavily muscled as to look misshapen, were more than capable of sustaining his bulk and giving him great speed. Only his oversized and overweight head remained a detriment, and that he overcame with pure pride and the will to win. All in all, as Joseph had been first to note, Firetail was one hopelessly homely animal that no one in his right mind would breed, but he could be made to show a tidy profit. At Mose Nolan’s expense, True thought, hiding his anger with a good-natured smile.
    â€œAre you ready, gentlemen?” the mayor called. “If you’ll take your places, please.”
    Amusement rippled through the crowd as True mounted and guided Firetail to the starting line. “Maybe young Paxton ought to be allowed a few extry minutes to show that loghead which leg to start off on,” someone called.
    â€œOr just to figure out which end is fore and which is aft,” another yelled, adding to the merriment.
    Tory pranced to the starting line and took her place next to Firetail beneath the brightly colored banner that had been stretched between two posts. “You sure you have him pointed in the right direction?” Nolan asked, smirking.
    â€œYou going to race or talk?” True snapped, dropping all pretense of affability.
    Nolan colored. “Ain’t no call—”
    â€œGet ready, gentlemen!” the mayor called, interrupting. Nolan shut up. Tory seemed to tense. True leaned forward in the saddle, felt Firetail’s muscles bunch beneath him. The mayor lifted a flintlock pistol, checked the pan, then pointed the weapon up and out to sea. The crowd hushed.
    â€œGet set …”
    The mayor squeezed the trigger. Released, the flint snapped forward and struck the frizzen. Sparks ignited the powder in the pan and flashed down into the charge in the barrel. The pistol shot flame and a cloud of black powder smoke into the air. At the sound, both horses leaped forward.
    Tory took a quick lead. Lighter than Firetail, she shot from the line and showed him her heels. Behind her, his eyes wild, Firetail thundered in her wake. “Go!” True shouted, the adrenaline surging through him as he leaned forward to become one with the horse. “Go!”
    What they had was a by God first class horse race! The crowd spread along the course roared its approval. The Paxton horse was coming on strong, but Tory was holding her own. No one doubted she would win, and oh, the thought of pockets crammed full of Paxton money was as sweet as the smell of victory
    At least for the first half mile.
    â€œWhat’s happening?” Joseph said, jumping to his feet. The roan picked up steam, began to close the gap.