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“What’s he doing?” he asked no one in particular. “Too soon!” he shouted vainly. “Too soon!”
    At five hundred yards, Tory was ahead by two lengths. At a thousand, less than one. At fifteen hundred, when they disappeared behind the tall sea grass at the head of the cove, by no more than a nose. And when they reappeared, Firetail was in the lead.
    â€œWhat the hell!” Joseph screamed. Andrew stared dumbfounded. It wasn’t part of the plan. True was supposed to let Nolan have the lead, then pull forward at the last minute to eke out a victory. Any other way, their odds on the next race would be diminished.
    True had other notions. He drove his bootheels into Firetail’s flanks. “Come on!” he whispered, knowing the wind whipped his voice away, yet knowing too that Firetail would sense his urgency. Winning or losing hadn’t mattered much to him only minutes earlier. Not until Mose Nolan smiled and joked once too often, until the crowd of Brandborough’s citizens had laughed once too often, until the starting gun, as it had the horses, had set his emotions loose to race wildly. Heedless, he swept the English racing cap off his head and let it fly away. Enough of silliness and cleverness! He had choked on Joseph’s scheme for the last time. To be taken as a fool in a dozen other cities and towns was onerous enough, but could be lived with so long as they won. To be the laughingstock of Brandborough was intolerable under any conditions. No man had dared mock or deride a Paxton for the last hundred years, and True was damned if they would start with him, no matter what the cost in future winnings.
    Blue water to his right, green trees to his left, ivory sand beneath him. How did the oak tree rise out of the ground just ahead? Magic? A mile so soon? True tugged on the reins, guided with his knees, felt his mount slow and lean, then come out of the turn and accelerate to full speed. A blur to his left was Nolan and Tory, just beginning to slow for the turn. “Move!” True yelled. “Run, you sonofabitch, run!”
    Whatever thoughts reside in an animal’s head no one knows, but it is said that some animals love winning. For the first time, free to run as fast as determination and muscle and sinew could carry them, Firetail bounded forward. His mane whipped True’s cheeks, left them burning as if stung by a thousand needles. His hooves pounded the earth. Ears back, neck stretched, forelegs reaching, his whole body appeared an elongated blur, an exact symbol of pure swiftness and nobility of motion.
    Four lengths became five. “Run, run, run!” True breathed, energy flowing from his fingertips into the reins, into the horse itself.
    Five became six. “No!” Joseph shouted.
    Six became an incredible seven lengths’ lead. Firetail’s nostrils flared and his chest heaved.
    Seven became eight and eight became nine. “Why?” Joseph screamed, kicking the saddlebag. “Why?”
    The banner blurred overhead as Firetail streaked past the finish line. Tory, a sure winner, followed an ignominious eleven lengths behind. Some few of the spectators whooped their delight. More, all those who had bet against the Paxtons and their ungainly roan stallion, stood in stunned silence. Nolan passed through the sullen crowd and savagely reined his mare to a dead halt. A hundred yards ahead of him, shedding grace as a snake does its skin, Firetail was slowing to an awkward, shambling trot before turning to walk back up the beach. Tory was breathing heavily and needed to walk, but when Nolan let her, she moved with an economy of effort and a fluid grace that made the loss all the more unbearable. A thousand-dollar weariness weighting his shoulders, Nolan slumped in the saddle. He didn’t want to face True, wanted less to face the accusing stares that waited for him back at the finish line. That left only one direction. Slowly, he