The Pacing Mustang 



with the wagon following a lesser circle. The 

 wild herd was back to its starting-point, worn 

 out ; and the hunters were back, fresh and on 

 fresh horses. The herd was kept from drink- 

 ing till late in the afternoon and then driven 

 to the Springs to swell themselves with a per- 

 fect water gorge. Now was the chance for the 

 skilful ropers on the grain-fed horses to close 

 in, for the sudden heavy drink was ruination, al- 

 most paralysis, of wind and limb, and it would 

 be easy to rope and hobble them one by one. 



There was only one weak spot in the pro- 

 gramme, the Black Stallion, the cause of the 

 hunt, seemed made of iron, that ceaseless swing- 

 ing pace seemed as swift and vigorous now as on 

 the morning when the chase began. Up and 

 down he went rounding up the herd and urging 

 them on by voice and example to escape. But 

 they were played out. The old white mare that 

 had been such help in sighting them at night, 

 had dropped out hours ago, dead beat. The 

 half-bloods seemed to be losing all fear of the 

 horsemen, the band was clearly in Jo's power. 

 But the one who was the prize of all the hunt 

 seemed just as far as ever out of reach. 



245 



