At the lower turn they'd quit.

Then, after talkin' it over excited-like for a few minutes, they'd calm down and wait for another.
After a few months of this sort of trainin' they got purty good at it.
I had one two-year-old rooster that made fifty-four mile an hour behind one of those sixty-horsepower Panhandles.

When cars didn't come along often enough, they'd all turn out and chase jack-rabbits.

They wasn't much fun at that.

After a short, brief sprint the rabbit would crouch down plumb terrified, while the Honk-honks pulled off triumphal dances around his shrinkin' form.
Our ranch got to be purty well known them days among automobeelists.
The strength of their cars was horse-power, of course, but the speed of them they got to ratin' by chicken-power.