I

Jo Calone threw down his saddle on the dusty ground, turned his horses loose, and went clanking into the ranchhouse.

“Nigh about chuck time?” he asked.

“Seventeen minutes,” said the cook glancing at the Waterbury, with the air of a train starter, though this show of precision had never yet been justified by events.

“How’s things on the Perico?” said Jo’s pard.

“Hotter’n hinges,” said Jo.  “Cattle seem O.K.; lots of calves.”

“I seen that bunch o’ mustangs that waters at Antelope Springs; couple o’ colts along; one little dark one, a fair dandy; a born pacer.  I run them a mile or two, and be led the bunch, an’ never broke his pace.  Cut loose, an’ pushed them jest for fun, an’ darned if I could make him break.”

“You didn’t have no reefreshments along?” said Scarth, incredulously.

“That’s all right, Scarth.  You had to crawl on our last bet, an’ you’ll get another chance soon as you’re man enough.”

“Chuck,” shouted the cook, and the subject was dropped.  Next day the scene of the roundup was changed, and the mustangs were forgotten.

A year later the same corner of New Mexico was worked over by the roundup, and again the mustang bunch was seen.  The dark colt was now a black yearling, with thin, clean legs and glossy flanks; and more than one of the boys saw with his own eyes this oddity-the mustang was a born pacer.  Jo was along, and the idea now struck him that that colt was worth having.  To an Easterner this thought may not seem startling or original, but in the West, where an unbroken horse is worth $5, and where an ordinary saddlehorse is worth $15 or $20, the idea of a wild mustang being desirable property does not occur to the average cowboy, for mustangs are hard to catch, and when caught are merely wild animal prisoners, perfectly useless and untamable to the last, Not a few of the cattle-owners make a point of shooting all mustangs at sight, they are not only useless cumberers of the feeding-grounds, but commonly lead away domestic horses, which soon take to wild life and are thenceforth lost.

Wild Jo Calone knew a ‘bronk right down to subsoil.’  “I never seen a white that wasn’t soft, nor a chestnut that wasn’t nervous, nor a bay that wasn’t good if broke right, nor a black that wasn’t hard as nails, an’ full of the old Harry.  All a black bronk wants is claws to be wus’n Daniel’s hull outfit of lions.”

Since, then, a mustang is worthless vermin, and a black mustang ten times worse than worthless, Jo’s pard “didn’t see no sense in Jo’s wantin’ to corral the yearling,” as he now seemed intent on doing.  But Jo got no chance to try that year.

He was only a cow-puncher on $25 a month, and tied to hours.  Like most of the boys, he always looked forward to having a ranch and an outfit of his own.  His brand, the hogpen, of sinister suggestion, was already registered at Santa Fe, but of horned stock it was borne by a single old cow, so as to give him a legal right to put his brand on any maverick (or unbranded animal) he might chance to find.

Yet each fall, when paid off, Jo could not resist the temptation to go to town with the boys and have a good time ‘while the stuff held out.’  So that his property consisted of little more than his saddle, his bed, and his old cow.  He kept on hoping to make a strike that would leave him well fixed with a fair start, and when the thought came that the Black Mustang was his mascot, he only needed a chance to ‘make the try.’

The roundup circled down to the Canadian River, and back in the fall by the Don Carlos Hills, and Jo saw no more of the Pacer, though he heard of him from many quarters, for the colt, now a vigorous, young horse, rising three, was beginning to be talked of.

Antelope Springs is in the middle of a great level plain.  When the water is high it spreads into a small lake with a belt of sedge around it; when it is low there is a wide flat of black mud, glistening white with alkali in places, and the spring a water-hole in the middle.  It has no flow or outlet and is fairly good water, the only drinking-place for many miles.

This flat, or prairie as it would be called farther north, was the favorite feeding-ground of the Black Stallion, but it was also the pasture of many herds of range horses and cattle.  Chiefly interested was the ‘L cross F’ outfit.  Foster, the manager and part owner, was a man of enterprise.  He believed it would pay to handle a better class of cattle and horses on the range, and one of his ventures was ten half-blooded mares, tall, clean-limbed, deer-eyed creatures that made the scrub cow-ponies look like pitiful starvelings of some degenerate and quite different species.

One of these was kept stabled for use, but the nine, after the weaning of their colts, managed to get away and wandered off on the range.

A horse has a fine instinct for the road to the best feed, and the nine mares drifted, of course, to the prairie of Antelope Springs, twenty miles to the southward, And when, later that summer Foster went to round them up, he found the nine indeed, but with them and guarding them with an air of more than mere comradeship was a coal-black stallion, prancing around and rounding up the bunch like an expert, his jet-black coat a vivid contrast to the golden hides of his harem.

The mares were gentle, and would have been easily driven homeward but for a new and unexpected thing.  The Black Stallion became greatly aroused.  He seemed to inspire them too with his wildness, and flying this way and that way drove the whole band at full gallop where he would.  Away they went, and the little cow-ponies that carried the men were easily left behind.

This was maddening, and both men at last drew their guns and sought a chance to drop that ‘blasted stallion.’  But no chance came that was not 9 to 1 of dropping one of the mares.  A long day of manoeuvring made no change.  The Pacer, for it was he, kept his family together and disappeared among the southern sand-hills.  The cattlemen on their jaded ponies set out for home with the poor satisfaction of vowing vengeance for their failure on the superb cause of it.

One of the most aggravating parts of it was that one or two experiences like this would surely make the mares as wild as the Mustang, and there seemed to be no way of saving them from it.

Scientists differ on the power of beauty and prowess to attract female admiration among the lower animals, but whether it is admiration or the prowess itself, it is certain that a wild animal of uncommon gifts soon wins a large following from the harems of his rivals.  And the great Black Horse, with his inky mane and tail and his green-lighted eyes, ranged through all that region and added to his following from many bands till not less than a score of mares were in his ‘bunch.’  Most were merely humble cow-ponies turned out to range, but the nine great mares were there, a striking group by themselves.  According to all reports, this bunch was always kept rounded up and guarded with such energy and jealously that a mare, once in it, was a lost animal so far as man was concerned, and the ranchmen realized soon that they had gotten on the range a mustang that was doing them more harm than all other sources of loss put together.

II

It was December, 1893.  I was new in the country, and was setting out from the ranch-house on the Pinavetitos, to go with a wagon to the Canadian River.  As I was leaving, Foster finished his remark by:  “And if you get a chance to draw a bead on that accursed mustang, don’t fail to drop him in his tracks.”

This was the first I had heard of him, and as I rode along I gathered from Burns, my guide, the history that has been given.  I was full of curiosity to see the famous three-year-old, and was not a little disappointed on the second day when we came to the prairie on Antelope Springs and saw no sign of the Pacer or his band.

But on the next day, as we crossed the Alamosa Arroyo, and were rising to the rolling prairie again, Jack Burns, who was riding on ahead, suddenly dropped flat on the neck of his horse, and swung back to me in the wagon, saying: 

“Get out your rifle, here’s that-stallion.”

I seized my rifle, and hurried forward to a view over the prairie ridge.  In the hollow below was a band of horses, and there at one end was the Great Black Mustang.  He had heard some sound of our approach, and was not unsuspicious of danger.  There he stood with head and tail erect, and nostrils wide, an image of horse perfection and beauty, as noble an animal as ever ranged the plains, and the mere notion of turning that magnificent creature into a mass of carrion was horrible.  In spite of Jack’s exhortation to ‘shoot quick,’ I delayed, and threw open the breach, whereupon he, always hot and hasty, swore at my slowness, growled, ‘Gi’ me that gun,’ and as he seized it I turned the muzzle up, and accidentally the gun went off.

Instantly the herd below was all alarm, the great black leader snorted and neighed and dashed about.  And the mares bunched, and away all went in a rumble of hoofs, and a cloud of dust.

The Stallion careered now on this side, now on that, and kept his eye on all and led and drove them far away.  As long as I could see I watched, and never once did he break his pace.

Jack made Western remarks about me and my gun, as well as that mustang, but I rejoiced in the Pacer’s strength and beauty, and not for all the mares in the bunch would I have harmed his glossy hide.

III

There are several ways of capturing wild horses.  One is by creasing-that is, grazing the animal’s nape with a rifle-ball so that he is stunned long enough for hobbling.

“Yest I seen about a hundred necks broke trying it, but I never seen a mustang creased yet,” was Wild Jo’s critical remark.

Sometimes, if the shape of the country abets it, the herd can be driven into a corral; sometimes with extra fine mounts they can be run down, but by far the commonest way, paradoxical as it may seem, is to walk them down.

The fame of the Stallion that never was known to gallop was spreading.  Extraordinary stories were told of his gait, his speed, and his wind, and when old Montgomery of the ‘triangle-bar’ outfit came out plump at Well’s Hotel in Clayton, and in presence of witnesses said he’d give one thousand dollars cash for him safe in a box-car, providing the stories were true, a dozen young cow-punchers were eager to cut loose and win the purse, as soon as present engagements were up.  But Wild Jo had had his eye on this very deal for quite a while; there was no time to lose, so ignoring present contracts he rustled all night to raise the necessary equipment for the game.

By straining his already overstrained credit, and taxing the already overtaxed generosity of his friends, lie got together an expedition consisting of twenty good saddle-horses, a mess-wagon, and a fortnight’s stuff for three men-himself, his ‘pard,’ Charley, and the cook.

Then they set out from Clayton, with the avowed intention of walking down the wonderfully swift wild horse.  The third day they arrived at Antelope Springs, and as it was about noon they were not surprised to see the black Pacer marching down to drink with all his band behind him.  Jo kept out of sight until the wild horses each and all had drunk their fill, for a thirsty animal always travels better than one laden with water.

Jo then rode quietly forward.  The Pacer took alarm at half a mile, and led his band away out of sight on the soapweed mesa to the southeast.  Jo followed at a gallop till he once more sighted them, then came back and instructed the cook, who was also teamster, to make for Alamosa Arroyo in the south.  Then away to the southeast he went after the mustangs.  After a mile or two he once more sighted them, and walked his horse quietly till so near that they again took alarm and circled away to the south.  An hour’s trot, not on the trail, but cutting across to where they ought to go, brought Jo again in close sight.  Again he walked quietly toward the herd, and again there was the alarm and fright.  And so they passed the afternoon, but circled ever more and more to the south, so that when the sun was low they were, as Jo had expected, not far from Alamosa Arroyo.  The band was again close at hand, and Jo, after starting them off, rode to the wagon, while his pard, who had been taking it easy, took up the slow chase on a fresh horse.

After supper the wagon moved on to the upper ford of the Alamosa, as arranged, and there camped for the night.

Meanwhile, Charley followed the herd.  They had not run so far as at first, for their pursuer made no sign of attack, and they were getting used to his company.  They were more easily found, as the shadows fell, on account of a snow-white mare that was in the bunch.  A young moon in the sky now gave some help, and relying on his horse to choose the path, Charley kept him quietly walking after the herd, represented by that ghost-white mare, till they were lost in the night.  He then got off, unsaddled and picketed his horse, and in his blanket quickly went to sleep.

At the first streak of dawn he was up, and within a short half-mile, thanks to the snowy mare, he found the band.  At his approach, the shrill neigh of the Pacer bugled his troop into a flying squad.  But on the first mesa they stopped, and faced about to see what this persistent follower was, and what he wanted.  For a moment or so they stood against the sky to gaze, and then deciding that he knew him as well as he wished to, that black meteor flung his mane on the wind, and led off at his tireless, even swing, while the mares came streaming after.

Away they went, circling now to the west, and after several repetitions of this same play, flying, following, and overtaking, and flying again, they passed, near noon, the old Apache look-out, Buffalo Bluff.  Anti here, on watch, was Jo.  A long thin column of smoke told Charley to come to camp, and with a flashing pocket-mirror he made response.  Jo, freshly mounted, rode across, and again took up the chase, and back came Chancy to camp to eat and rest, and then move on up stream.

All that day Jo followed, and managed, when it was needed, that the herd should keep the great circle, of which the wagon cut a small chord.  At sundown he came to Verde Crossing, and there was Charley with a fresh horse and food, and Jo went on in the same calm, dogged way.  All the evening he followed, and far into the night, for the wild herd was now getting somewhat used to the presence of the harmless strangers, and were more easily followed; moreover, they were thing out with perpetual traveling.  They were no longer in the good grass country, they were not grain-fed like the horses on their track, and above all, the slight but continuous nervous tension was surely telling.  It spoiled their appetites, but made them very thirsty.  They were allowed, and as far as possible encouraged, to drink deeply at every chance.  The effect of large quantities of water on a running animal is well known; it tends to stiffen the limbs and spoil the wind.  Jo carefully guarded his own horse against such excess, and both he and his horse were fresh when they camped that night on the trail of the jaded mustangs.

At dawn he found them easily close at hand, and though they ran at first they did not go far before they dropped into a walk.  The battle seemed nearly won now, for the chief difficulty in the ‘walk-down’ is to keep track of the herd the first two or three days when they are fresh.

All that morning Jo kept in sight, generally in close sight, of the band.  About ten o’clock, Charley relieved him near Jos.  Peak and that day the mustangs walked only a quarter of a mile ahead with much less spirit than the day before and circled now more north again.  At night Charley was supplied with a fresh horse and followed as before.

Next day the mustangs walked with heads held low, and in spite of the efforts of the Black Pacer at times they were less than a hundred yards ahead of their pursuer.

The fourth and fifth days passed the same way, and now the herd was nearly back to Antelope Springs.  So far all had come out as expected.  The chase had been in a great circle with the wagon following a lesser circle.  The wild herd was back to its starting-point, worn out; and the hunters were back, fresh and on fresh horses.  The herd was kept from drinking till late in the afternoon and then driven to the Springs to swell themselves with a perfect water gorge.  Now was the chance for the skilful ropers on the grain-fed horses to close in, for the sudden heavy drink was ruination, almost paralysis, of wind and limb, and it would be easy to rope and hobble them one by one.

There was only one weak spot in the programme, the Black Stallion, the cause of the hunt, seemed made of iron, that ceaseless swinging pace seemed as swift and vigorous now as on the morning when the chase began.  Up and down he went rounding up the herd and urging them on by voice and example to escape.  But they were played out.  The old white mare that had been such help in sighting them at night, had dropped out hours ago, dead beat.  The half-bloods seemed to be losing all fear of the horsemen, the band was clearly in Jo’s power.  But the one who was the prize of all the hunt seemed just as far as ever out of reach.

Here was a puzzle.  Jo’s comrades knew him well and would not have been surprised to see him in a sudden rage attempt to shoot the Stallion down.  But Jo had no such mind.  During that long week of following he had watched the horse all day at speed and never once had he seen him gallop.

The horseman’s adoration of a noble horse had grown and grown, till now he would as soon have thought of shooting his best mount as firing on that splendid beast.

Jo even asked himself whether he would take the handsome sum that was offered for the prize.  Such an animal would be a fortune in himself to sire a race of pacers for the track.

But the prize was still at large-the time had come to finish up the hunt.  Jo’s finest mount was caught.  She was a mare of Eastern blood, but raised on the plains.  She never would have come into Jo’s possession but for a curious weakness.  The loco is a poisonous weed that grows in these regions.  Most stock will not touch it; but sometimes an animal tries it and becomes addicted to it.

It acts somewhat like morphine, but the animal, though sane for long intervals, has always a passion for the herb and finally dies mad.  A beast with the craze is said to be locoed.  And Jo’s best mount had a wild gleam in her eye that to an expert told the tale.

But she was swift and strong and Jo chose her for the grand finish of the chase.  It would have been an easy matter now to rope the mares, but was no longer necessary.  They could be separated from their black leader and driven home to the corral.  But that leader still had the look of untamed strength.  Jo, rejoicing in a worthy foe, went bounding forth to try the odds.  The lasso was flung on the ground and trailed to take out every kink, and gathered as he rode into neatest coils across his left palm.  Then putting on the spur the first time in that chase he rode straight for the Stallion a quarter of a mile beyond.  Away he went, and away went Jo, each at his best, while the fagged-out mares scattered right and left and let them pass.  Straight across the open plain the fresh horse went at its hardest gallop, and the Stallion, leading off, still kept his start and kept his famous swing.

It was incredible, and Jo put on more spur and shouted to his horse, which fairly flew, but shortened up the space between by not a single inch.  For the Black One whirled across the flat and up and passed a soap-weed mesa and down across a sandy treacherous plain, then over a grassy stretch where prairie dogs barked, then hid below, and on came Jo, but there to see, could he believe his eyes, the Stallion’s start grown longer still, and Jo began to curse his luck, and urge and spur his horse until the poor uncertain brute got into such a state of nervous fright, her eyes began to roll, she wildly shook her head from side to side, no longer picked her ground-a badger-hole received her foot and down she went, and Jo went flying to the earth.  Though badly bruised, he gained his feet and tried to mount his crazy beast.  But she, poor brute, was done for-her off fore-leg hung loose.

There was but one thing to do.  Jo loosed the cinch, put Lightfoot out of pain, and carried back the saddle to the camp.  While the Pacer steamed away till lost to view.

This was not quite defeat, for all the mares were manageable now, and Jo and Charley drove them carefully to the ‘L cross F’ corral and claimed a good reward.  But Jo was more than ever bound to own the Stallion.  He had seen what stuff he was made of, he prized him more and more, and only sought to strike some better plan to catch him.

IV

The cook on that trip was Bates-Mr. Thomas Bates, he called himself at the post-office where he regularly went for the letters and remittance which never came.  Old Tom Turkeytrack, the boys called him, from his cattle-brand, which he said was on record at Denver, and which, according to his story, was also borne by countless beef and saddle stock on the plains of the unknown North.

When asked to join the trip as a partner, Bates made some sarcastic remarks about horses not fetching $12 a dozen, which had been literally true within the year, and he preferred to go on a very meagre salary.  But no one who once saw the Pacer going had failed to catch the craze.  Turkeytrack experienced the usual change of heart.  He now wanted to own that mustang.  How this was to be brought about he did not clearly see till one day there called at the ranch that had ‘secured his services,’ as he put it, one, Bill Smith, more usually known as Horseshoe Billy, from his cattle-brand.  While the excellent fresh beef and bread and the vile coffee, dried peaches and molasses were being consumed, he of the horseshoe remarked, in tones which percolated through a huge stop-gap of bread: 

“Wall, I seen that thar Pacer to-day, nigh enough to put a plait in his tail.”

“What, you didn’t shoot?”

“No, but I come mighty near it.”

“Don’t you be led into no sich foolishness,” said a ‘double-bar H’ cow-puncher at the other end of the table.  “I calc’late that maverick ’ill carry my brand before the moon changes.”

“You’ll have to be pretty spry or you’ll find a ‘triangle dot’ on his weather side when you get there.”

“Where did you run across him?”

“Wail, it was like this; I was riding the flat by Antelope Springs and I sees a lump on the dry mud inside the rush belt.  I knowed I never seen that before, so I rides up, thinking it might be some of our stock, an’ seen it was a horse lying plumb flat.  The wind was blowing like-from him to me, so I rides up close and seen it was the Pacer, dead as a mackerel.  Still, he didn’t look swelled or cut, and there wa’n’t no smell, an’ I didn’t know what to think till I seen his ear twitch off a fly and then I knowed he was sleeping.  I gits down me rope and coils it, and seen it was old and pretty shaky in spots, and me saddle a single cinch, an’ me pony about 700 again a 1,200 lbs. stallion, an’ I sez to meself, sez I:  ’Tain’t no use, I’ll only break me cinch and git throwed an’ lose me saddle.’  So I hits the saddle-horn a crack with the hondu, and I wish’t you’d a seen that mustang.  He lept six foot in the air an’ snorted like he was shunting cars.  His eyes fairly bugged out an’ he lighted out lickety split for California, and he orter be there about now if he kep’ on like he started-and I swear he never made a break the hull trip.”

The story was not quite so consecutive as given here.  It was much punctuated by present engrossments, and from first to last was more or less infiltrated through the necessaries of life, for Bill was a healthy young man without a trace of false shame.  But the account was complete and everyone believed it, for Billy was known to be reliable.  Of all those who heard, old Turkeytrack talked the least and probably thought the most, for it gave him a new idea.

During his after-dinner pipe he studied it out and deciding that he could not go it alone, he took Horseshoe Billy into his council and the result was a partnership in a new venture to capture the Pacer; that is, the $5,000 that was now said to be the offer for him safe in a box-car.

Antelope Springs was still the usual watering-place of the Pacer.  The water being low left a broad belt of dry black mud between the sedge and the spring.  At two places this belt was broken by a well-marked trail made by the animals coming to drink.  Horses and wild animals usually kept to these trails, though the horned cattle had no hesitation in taking a short cut through the sedge.

In the most used of these trails the two men set to work with shovels and dug a pit 15 feet long, 6 feet wide and 7 feet deep.  It was a hard twenty hours work for them as it had to be completed between the Mustang’s drinks, and it began to be very damp work before it was finished.  With poles, brush, and earth it was then cleverly covered over and concealed.  And the men went to a distance and bid in pits made for the purpose.

About noon the Pacer came, alone now since the capture of his band.  The trail on the opposite side of the mud belt was little used, and old Tom, by throwing some fresh rushes across it, expected to make sure that the Stallion would enter by the other, if indeed he should by any caprice try to come by the unusual path.

What sleepless angel is it watches over and cares for the wild animals?  In spite of all reasons to take the usual path, the Pacer came along the other.  The suspicious-looking rushes did not stop him; he walked calmly to the water and drank.  There was only one way now to prevent utter failure; when he lowered his head for the second draft which horses always take, Bates and Smith quit their holes and ran swiftly toward the trail behind him, and when he raised his proud head Smith sent a revolver shot into the ground behind him.

Away went the Pacer at his famous gait straight to the trap.  Another second and he would be into it.  Already he is on the trail, and already they feel they have him, but the Angel of the wild things is with him, that incomprehensible warning comes, and with one mighty bound he clears the fifteen feet of treacherous ground and spurns the earth as he fades away unharmed, never again to visit Antelope Springs by either of the beaten paths.

V

Wild Jo never lacked energy.  He meant to catch that Mustang, and when he learned that others were be stirring themselves for the same purpose he at once set about trying the best untried plan he knew-the plan by which the coyote catches the fleeter jackrabbit, and the mounted Indian the far swifter antelope-the old plan of the relay chase.

The Canadian River on the south, its affluent, the Pinavetitos Arroyo, on the northeast, and the Don Carlos Hills with the Ute Creek Canyon on the west, formed a sixty-mile triangle that was the range of the Pacer.  It was believed that he never went outside this, and at all times Antelope Springs was his headquarters.

Jo knew this country well, all the water-holes and canon crossings as well as the ways of the Pacer.

If he could have gotten fifty good horses he could have posted them to advantage so as to cover all points, but twenty mounts and five good riders were all that proved available.

The horses, grain-fed for two weeks before, were sent on ahead; each man was instructed how to play his part and sent to his post the day before the race.  On the day of the start Jo with his wagon drove to the plain of Antelope Springs and, camping far off in a little draw, waited.

At last he came, that coal-black Horse, out from the sand-hills at the south, alone as always now, and walked calmly down to the Springs and circled quite around it to sniff for any hidden foe.  Then he approached where there was no trail at all and drank.

Jo watched and wished that he would drink a hogs-head.  But the moment that he turned and sought the grass Jo spurred his steed.  The Pacer heard the hoofs, then saw the running horse, and did not want a nearer view but led away.  Across the flat he went down to the south, and kept the famous swinging gait that made his start grow longer.  Now through the sandy dunes he went, and steadying to an even pace he gained considerably and Jo’s too-laden horse plunged through the sand and sinking fetlock deep, he lost at every bound.  Then came a level stretch where the runner seemed to gain, and then a long decline where Jo’s horse dared not run his best, so lost again at every step.

But on they went, and Jo spared neither spur nor quirt.  A mile-a mile-and another mile, and the far-off rock at Arriba loomed up ahead.

And there Jo knew fresh mounts were held, and on they dashed.  But the night-black mane out level on the breeze ahead was gaining more and more.

Arriba Canon reached at last, the watcher stood aside, for it was not wished to turn the race, and the Stallion passed-dashed down, across and up the slope, with that unbroken pace, the only one he knew.

And Jo came bounding on his foaming steed, and on the waiting mount, then urged him down the slope and up upon the track, and on the upland once more drove in the spurs, and raced and raced, and raced, but not a single inch he gained.

Ga-lump, ga-lump, ga-lump, with measured beat he went-an hour-an hour, and another hour-Arroyo Alamosa just ahead with fresh relays, and Jo yelled at his horse and pushed him on and on.  Straight for the place the Black One made, but on the last two miles some strange foreboding turned him to the left, and Jo foresaw escape in this, and pushed his jaded mount at any cost to head him off, and hard as they had raced this was the hardest race of all, with gasps for breath and leather squeaks at every straining bound.  Then cutting right across, Jo seemed to gain, and drawing his gun he fired shot after shot to toss the dust, and so turned the Stallion’s head and forced him back to take the crossing to the right.

Down they went.  The Stallion crossed and Jo sprang to the ground.  His horse was done, for thirty miles had passed in the last stretch, and Jo himself was worn out.  His eyes were burnt with flying alkali dust.  He was half blind so he motioned to his ‘pard’ to “go ahead and keep him straight for Alamosa ford.”

Out shot the rider on a strong, fresh steed, and away they went-up and down on the rolling plain-the Black Horse flecked with snowy foam.  His heaving ribs and noisy breath showed what he felt-but on and on he Went.

And Tom on Ginger seemed to gain, then lose and lose, when in an hour the long decline of Alamosa came.

And there a freshly mounted lad took up the chase and turned it west, and on they went past towns of prairie dogs, through soapweed tracts and cactus brakes by scores, and pricked and wrenched rode on.  With dust and sweat the Black was now a dappled brown, but still he stepped the same.  Young Carrington, who followed, bad hurt his steed by pushing at the very start, and spurred and urged him now to cut across a gulch at which the Pacer shied.  Just one misstep and down they went.

The boy escaped, but the pony lies there yet, and the wild Black Horse kept on.

This was close to old Gallego’s ranch where Jo himself had cut across refreshed to push the chase.  Within thirty minutes he was again scorching the Pacer’s trail.

Far in the west the Carlos Hills were seen, and there Jo knew fresh men and mounts were waiting, and that way the indomitable rider tried to turn, the race, but by a sudden whim, of the inner warning born perhaps-the Pacer turned.  Sharp to the north he went, and Jo, the skilful wrangler, rode and rode and yelled and tossed the dust with shots, but down on a gulch the wild black meteor streamed and Jo could only follow.  Then came the hardest race of all; Jo, cruel to the Mustang, was crueller to his mount and to himself.  The sun was hot, the scorching plain was dim in shimmering heat, his eyes and lips were burnt with sand and salt, and yet the chase sped on.  The only chance to win would be if he could drive the Mustang back to the Big Arroyo Crossing.  Now almost for the first time he saw signs of weakening in the Black.  His mane and tail were not just quite so high, and his short half mile of start was down by more than half, but still he stayed ahead and paced and paced and paced.

An hour and another hour, and still they went the same.  But they turned again, and night was near when Big Arroyo ford was reached-fully twenty miles.  But Jo was game, he seized the waiting horse.  The one he left went gasping to the stream and gorged himself with water till he died.

Then Jo held back in hopes the foaming Black would drink.  But he was wise; he gulped a single gulp, splashed through the stream and then passed on with Jo at speed behind him.  And when they last were seen the Black was on ahead just out of reach and Jo’s horse bounding on.

It was morning when Jo came to camp on foot.  His tale was briefly told:-eight horses dead-five men worn out-the matchless Pacer safe and free.

“Tain’t possible; it can’t be done.  Sorry I didn’t bore his hellish carcass through when I had the chance,” said Jo, and gave it up.

VI

Old Turkeytrack was cook on this trip.  He had watched the chase with as much interest as anyone, and when it failed he grinned into the pot and said:  “That mustang’s mine unless I’m a darned fool.”  Then falling back on Scripture for a precedent, as was his habit, he still addressed the pot: 

“Reckon the Philistines tried to run Samson down and they got done up, an’ would a stayed don ony for a nat’ral weakness on his part.  An’ Adam would a loafed in Eden yit it ony for a leetle failing, which we all onder stand.  An’ it aint $5,000 I’ll take for him nuther.”

Much persecution had made the Pacer wilder than ever.  But it did not drive him away from Antelope Springs.  That was the only drinking-place with absolutely no shelter for a mile on every side to hide an enemy.  Here he came almost every day about noon, and after thoroughly spying the land approached to drink.

His had been a lonely life all winter since the capture of his harem, and of this old Turkeytrack was fully aware.  The old cook’s chum had a nice little brown mare which he judged would serve his ends, and taking a pair of the strongest hobbles, a spade, a spare lasso, and a stout post he mounted the mare and rode away to the famous Springs.

A few antelope skimmed over the plain before him in the early freshness of the day.  Cattle were lying about in groups, and the loud, sweet song of the prairie lark was’ heard on every side.  For the bright snowless winter of the mesas was gone and the springtime was at hand.  The grass was greening and all nature seemed turning to thoughts of love.

It was in the air, and when the little brown mare was picketed out to graze she raised her nose from time to time to pour forth a long shrill whinny that surely was her song, if song she had, of love.

Old Turkeytrack studied the wind and the lay of the land.  There was the pit he had labored at, now opened and filled with water that was rank with drowned prairie dogs and mice.  Here was the new trail the animals were forced to make by the pit.  He selected a sedgy clump near some smooth, grassy ground, and first firmly sunk the post, then dug a hole large enough to hide in, and spread his blanket in it.  He shortened up the little mare’s tether, till she could scarcely move; then on the ground between he spread his open lasso, tying the long end to the post, then covered the rope with dust and grass, and went into his hiding-place.

About noon, after long waiting, the amorous whinny of the mare was answered from the high ground, away to the west, and there, black against the sky, was the famous Mustang.

Down he came at that long swinging gait, but grown crafty with much pursuit, he often stopped to gaze and whinny, and got answer that surely touched his heart.

Nearer he came again to call, then took alarm, and paced all around in a great circle to try the wind for his foes, and seemed in doubt.  The Angel whispered “Don’t go.”  But the brown mare called again.  He circled nearer still, and neighed once more, and got reply that seemed to quell all fears, and set his heart aglow.

Nearer still he pranced, till he touched Solly’s nose with his own, and finding her as responsive as he well could wish, thrust aside all thoughts of danger, and abandoned himself to the delight of conquest, until, as he pranced around, his hind legs for a moment stood within the evil circle of the rope.  One deft sharp twitch, the noose flew tight, and he was caught.

A snort of terror and a bound in the air gave Tom the chance to add the double hitch.  The loop flashed up the line, and snake-like bound those mighty hoofs.

Terror lent speed and double strength for a moment, but the end of the rope was reached, and down he went a captive, a hopeless prisoner at last.  Old Tom’s ugly, little crooked form sprang from the pit to complete the mastering of the great glorious creature whose mighty strength had proved as nothing when matched with the wits of a little old man.  With snorts and desperate bounds of awful force the great beast dashed and struggled to be free; but all in vain.  The rope was strong.

The second lasso was deftly swung, and the forefeet caught, and then with a skilful move the feet were drawn together, and down went the raging Pacer to lie a moment later ‘hog-tied’ and helpless on the ground.  There he struggled till worn out, sobbing great convulsive sobs while tears ran down his cheeks.

Tom stood by and watched, but a strange revulsion of feeling came over the old cow-puncher.  He trembled nervously from head to foot, as he had not done since he roped his first steer, and for a while could do nothing but gaze on his tremendous prisoner.  But the feeling soon passed away.  He saddled Delilah, and taking the second lasso, roped the great horse about the neck, and left the mare to hold the Stallion’s head, while he put on the hobbles.  This was soon done, and sure of him now old Bates was about to loose the ropes, but on a sudden thought he stopped.  He had quite forgotten, and had come unprepared for something of importance.  In Western law the Mustang was the property of the first man to mark him with his brand; how was this to be done with the nearest branding-iron twenty miles away?

Old Tom went to his mare, took up her hoofs one at a time, and examined each shoe.  Yes! one was a little loose; he pushed and pried it with the spade, and got it off.  Buffalo chips and kindred fuel were plentiful about the plain, so a fire was quickly made, and he soon had one arm of the horse-shoe red hot, then holding the other wrapped in his sock he rudely sketched on the left shoulder of the helpless mustang a turkeytrack, his brand, the first time really that it had ever been used.  The Pacer shuddered as the hot iron seared his flesh, but it was quickly done, and the famous Mustang Stallion was a maverick no more.

Now all there was to do was to take him home.  The ropes were loosed, the Mustang felt himself freed, thought he was free, and sprang to his feet only to fall as soon as he tried to take a stride.  His forefeet were strongly tied together, his only possible gait a shuffling walk, or else a desperate labored bounding with feet so unnaturally held that within a few yards he was inevitably thrown each time he tired to break away.  Tom on the light pony headed him off again and again, and by dint of driving, threatening, and maneuvering, contrived to force his foaming, crazy captive northward toward the Pinavetitos Canyon.  But the wild horse would not drive, would not give in.  With snorts of terror or of rage and maddest bounds, he tried and tried to get away.  It was one long cruel fight; his glossy sides were thick with dark foam, and the foam was stained with blood.  Countless hard falls and exhaustion that a long day’s chase was powerless to produce were telling on him; his straining bounds first this way and then that, were not now quite so strong, and the spray he snorted as he gasped was half a spray of blood.  But his captor, relentless, masterful and cool, still forced him on.  Down the slope toward the canyon they had come, every yard a fight, and now they were at the head of the draw that took the trail down to the only crossing of the canon, the northmost limit of the Pacer’s ancient range.

From this the first corral and ranch-house were in sight.  The man rejoiced, but the Mustang gathered his remaining strength for one more desperate dash.  Up, up the grassy slope from the trail he went, defied the swinging, slashing rope and the gunshot fired in air, in vain attempt to turn his frenzied course.  Up, up and on, above the sheerest cliff he dashed then sprang away into the vacant air, down-down-two hundred downward feet to fall, and land upon the rocks below, a lifeless wreck-but free.