The Pacing Mustang 



picketed his horse, and in his blanket quickly 

 went to sleep. 



At the first streak of dawn he was up, and 

 within a short half-mile, thanks to the snowy 

 mare, he found the band. At his approach, 

 the shrill neigh of the Pacer bugled his 

 troop into a flying squad. But on the first 

 mesa they stopped, and faced about to see what 

 this persistent follower was, and what he wanted. 

 For a moment or so they stood against the sky 

 to gaze, and then deciding that he knew him as 

 well as he wished to, that black meteor flung his 

 mane on the wind, and led off at his tireless, 

 even swing, while the mares came streaming 

 after. 



Away they went, circling now to the west, 

 and after several repetitions of this same play, 

 flying, following, and overtaking, and flying 

 again, they passed, near noon, the old Apache 

 look-out, Buffalo Bluff. And here, on watch, 

 was Jo. A long thin column of smoke told 

 Charley to come to camp, and with a flashing 

 pocket-mirror he made response. 



Jo, freshly mounted, rode across, and again 

 took up the chase, and back came Charley to 



242 



