The Pacing Mustang 



and urged him now to cut across a gulch at 

 which the Pacer shied. Just one misstep and 

 down they went. 



The boy escaped, but the pony lies there 

 yet, and the wild Black Horse kept on. 



This was close to old Gallego's ranch where 

 Jo himself had cut across refreshed to push the 

 chase. Within thirty minutes he was again 

 scorching the Pacer's trail. 



Far in the west the Carlos Hills were seen, 

 and there Jo knew fresh men and mounts were 

 waiting, and that way the indomitable rider 

 tried to turn the race, but by a sudden whim, 

 of the inner warning born perhaps — the Pacer 

 turned. Sharp to the north he went, and Jo, 

 the skilful wrangler, rode and rode and yelled 

 and tossed the dust with shots, but down a 

 gulch the wild black meteor streamed and Jo 

 could only follow. Then came the hardest race 

 of all ; Jo, cruel to the Mustang, was crueller to 

 his mount and to himself. The sun was hot, 

 the scorching plain was dim in shimmering heat, 

 his eyes and lips were burnt with sand and salt, 

 and yet the chase sped on. The only chance 

 to win would be if he could drive the Mustang 



259 



