The Pacing Mustang 



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 re- 

 sist 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 



232 



