The money in his pocket burned his leg. Now, as he watched the filly, he wanted her more than ever.

The assistant auctioneer was giving Black Minx’s pedigree. “This two-year-old filly is by the Black, folks, and I don’t need to remind you that he’s the sire of Satan, champion at two, three, and four years of age. And her dam is Elf, an unraced mare because of an early leg injury. Now you all know that this heah filly is the property of Mrs. David Chandler and that her husband, Doctor Chandler, had one of the finest stock farms in this section up until his death two years ago. Mrs. Chandler sold all racing stock at that time except for this heah filly. You won’t find a better-looking two-year-old, folks. She’s ready to be raced. She might be the one! Don’t you think so, Jim?”

“I do, Carl. I most certainly do,” the auctioneer said into the microphone. “And heah we go! Heah we go! Who’ll start the bidding off for this real fine filly?” His anxious eyes went quickly over the small number of people remaining in the pavilion. “She might be the three-year-old we’ll all heah about next season! Yes, sireee! Heah we go! Who’ll say a thousand dollars for her?”

Henry’s eyes stayed on the auctioneer, yet his ears were alert for any bid. If they started at a thousand dollars, he wouldn’t stand a chance of getting her. He waited, a little afraid even to breathe. A bid came, but it wasn’t the thousand dollars asked.

The auctioneer accepted it. “I got five hundred, five, five. Make it a thousand. I’m asking one, one …”

Henry relaxed a little. The low bid as a starter made it plain to him that the people left weren’t going up very high to get this filly. They were afraid of her. Maybe they thought they knew too much about her. Well, he knew all they did and, in addition, he saw something more. He’d use all his money and, if necessary, some of Alec’s to get her.

His eyes shifted from the auctioneer to the filly, who pawed often and pulled the attendant about the ring. Not once did Henry look at the other people in the pavilion. But he knew their number was small, and he gave thanks again to the heavy snow.

Within the next ten minutes two more bids were made for Black Minx. But they were raises of only a hundred dollars each time. Henry knew the auctioneer was becoming vexed and impatient with the low and slow bidding.

Suddenly the sing-song chant stopped and the room was quiet until the auctioneer said angrily, “Folks, seven hundred dollars isn’t a fair price for this heah filly! You’re all wrong, dead wrong. She’s worth ten times what you’ve bid on bloodlines alone, even if you never race her.