The White Mustang 



I lost my voice again, and fired my last shot. Then 

 the White Mustang burst into a dash of daring, 

 despairing speed. It was his last magnificent effort. 

 Straight for the wash at the upper end he pointed 

 his racy, spirited head, and his white legs stretched 

 far apart, twinkled and stretched again. Jones gal 

 loped to cut him off, and the yells he emitted were 

 demoniacal. It was a long, straight race for the 

 mustang, a short curve for the bay. 



That the white stallion gained was as sure as his 

 resolve to elude capture, and he never swerved a 

 foot from his course. Jones might have headed him, 

 but manifestly he wanted to ride with him, as well as 

 to meet him, so in case the lasso went true, a terrible 

 shock might be averted. 



Up went Jones s arm as the space shortened, and 

 the lasso ringed his head. Out it shot, lengthened 

 like a yellow, striking snake, and fell just short of 

 the flying white tail. 



The White Mustang, fulfilling his purpose in a 

 last heroic display of power, sailed into the air, up 

 and up, and over the wide wash like a white streak. 

 Free ! the dust rolled in a cloud from under his hoofs, 

 and he vanished. 



Jones s superb horse, crashing down on his 

 haunches, just escaped sliding into the hole. 



I awoke to the realization that Satan had carried 

 121 



