The White Mustang 



and again whistled his shrill note of defiance. Pure 

 creamy white he was, and built like a racer. He 

 pranced, struck his hoofs hard and cavorted; then, 

 taking sudden fright, he wheeled. 



It was then, when the mustangs were pivoting, 

 with the white in the lead, that Jones jumped upon the 

 stone, fired his pistol and roared with all his strength. 

 Taking his cue, I did likewise. The band huddled 

 back again, uncertain and frightened, then broke up 

 the canon. 



Jones jumped the ditch with surprising agility, 

 and I followed close at his heels. When we reached 

 our plunging horses, he shouted: &quot; Mount, and hold 

 this passage. Keep close in by that big stone at the 

 turn so they can t run you down, or stampede you. 

 If they head your way, scare them back.&quot; 



Satan quivered, and when I mounted, reared and 

 plunged. I had to hold him in hard, for he was 

 eager to run. At the cliff wall I was at some pains 

 to check him. He kept champing his bit and stamp 

 ing his feet. 



From my post I could see the mustangs flying 

 before a cloud of dust. Jones was turning in his 

 horse behind a large rock in the middle of the canon, 

 where he evidently intended to hide. Presently suc 

 cessive yells and shots from our comrades blended in 

 a roar which the narrow box-canon augmented and 



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