The Pacing Mustang 



Arriba Canon reached at last, the watcher 

 stood aside, for it was not wished to turn the 

 race, and the Stallion passed— dashed down, 

 across and up the slope, with that unbroken 

 pace, the only one he knew. 



And Jo came bounding on his foaming 

 steed, and leaped on the waiting mount, then 

 urged him down the slope and up upon the 

 track, and on the upland once more drove in 

 the spurs, and raced and raced, and raced, but 

 not a single inch he gained. 



Ga-lump, ga-lump, ga-lump with measured 

 beat he went— an hour— an hour, and another 

 hour— Arroyo Alamosa just ahead with fresh 

 relays, and Jo yelled at his horse and pushed 

 him on and on. Straight for the place the 

 Black One made, but on the last two miles 

 some strange foreboding turned him to the left, 

 and Jo foresaw escape in this, and pushed 

 his jaded mount at any cost to head him off, 

 and hard as they had raced this was the hard- 

 est race of all, with gasps for breath and leather 

 squeaks at every straining bound. Then cut- 

 ting right across, Jo seemed to gain, and draw- 

 ing his gun he fired shot after shot to toss the 



2H1 



