330 THE LUKE LIGHTWOOD LEGACY. 



The morning set for the race found us within the 

 town of Bucksnort, a little village consisting of one 

 grocery and some out-buildings. The contest which 

 was to come off had attracted a crowd of some two 

 hundred persons, the mass of whom, upon our entry, 

 were gathered about the grocery, from whence pro- 

 ceeded the sounds of music and dancing, accompanied 

 by a variety of fancy noises, in the way of imitation of 

 Indian yells and the various cries of wild beasts, 

 peculiar to the region of country in which the village 

 had been located. 



In mingling with the crowd, many of whom were 

 old acquaintances, we found the race the ruling topic 

 of discussion, with occasional diversions upon the sub- 

 ject of Indian depredations, regulating cattle-thieves, 

 inquiries after stray ponies, etc. Rolette seemed the 

 favorite, and odds were freely given against the mare, 

 Sliding Jennie. 



. "If I weren't afeerd," said Bill Speck, a withered, 

 shrunken old fellow of advanced age, with one eye, 

 clad entout in buckskin, a handkerchief bound about 

 his unkempt locks of iron gray hair, a bristly beard, 

 and chewing a huge quid of tobacco, forcing the 

 amber in two tiny streams from either corner of his 

 mouth, like juice from a cider-press, "if I weren't 

 afeerd it was a 'throw off,' I ain't shore but what I 

 mout bet a little sumthin' myself. But," continued 

 Uncle Billy, "you see I've knowed old Baron de Kalb 

 Pierch a long time ; he's a good naybor, but powerful 

 onsartin in sportin' matters. I wunce lost a yoke of 

 steers and three yearlins on a hoss ov his, named Flit- 

 ter Foot, that didn't suit me no way you could fix it. 

 I told Pierch, in mighty plain talk, what I thought ; 



