The White Mustang 



the dust a mass of tossing manes, foam-flecked black 

 horses, wild eyes and lifting hoofs rushed at me. 

 Satan, with a presence of mind that shamed mine, 

 leaped back and hugged the wall. My eyes were 

 blinded by dust; the smell of dust choked me. I felt 

 a strong rush of wind and a mustang grazed my 

 stirrup. Then they had passed, on the wings of the 

 dust-laden breeze. 



But not all, for I saw that Jones had, in some inex 

 plicable manner, cut the White Mustang and two of 

 his blacks out of the band. He had turned them back 

 again and was pursuing them. The bay he rode 

 had never before appeared to much advantage, and 

 now, with his long, lean, powerful body in splendid 

 action, imbred with the relentless will of his rider, 

 : a picture he presented ! How he did run ! 

 With all that, the White Mustang made him look 

 dingy and slow. Nevertheless, it was a critical time 

 in the wild career of that king of horses. He had 

 been penned in a space two hundred by five hundred 

 yards, half of which was separated from him by a 

 wide ditch, a yawning chasm that he had refused; 

 and behind him, always keeping on the inside, 

 wheeled the yelling hunter, who savagely spurred his 

 bay and whirled a deadly lasso. He had been cut 

 off and surrounded ; the very nature of the rocks and 

 trails of the canon threatened to end his freedom or 



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