CHAPTER VI 



THE WHITE MUSl^NG 



FOR thirty miles down Nail Canon we marked, 

 in every dusty trail and sandy wash, the small, 

 oval, sharply defined tracks of the White 

 Mustang and his band. 



The canon had been well named. It was long, 

 straight and square sided; its bare walls glared steel- 

 gray in the sun, smooth, glistening surfaces that had 

 been polished by wind and water. No weathered 

 heaps of shale, no crumbled piles of stone obstructed 

 its level floor. And, softly toning its drab austerity, 

 here grew the white sage, waving in the breeze, the 

 Indian Paint Brush, with vivid vermilion flower, 

 and patches of fresh, green grass. 



&quot; The White King, as we Arizona wild-hoss wran 

 glers calls this mustang, is mighty pertickler about 

 his feed, an he ranged along here last night, easy 

 like, browsin on this white sage,&quot; said Stewart. 

 Infected by our intense interest in the famous mus 

 tang, and ruffled slightly by Jones s manifest surprise 

 and contempt that no one had captured him, Stewart 

 had volunteered to guide us. &quot; Never knowed him 



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