The Pacing Mustang 



ward toward the Pinavetitos Canon. But the 

 wild horse would not drive, would not give in. 

 With snorts of terror or of rage and maddest 

 bounds, he tried and tried to get away. It 

 was one long cruel fight ; his glossy sides were 

 thick with dark foam, and the foam was stained 

 with blood. Countless hard falls and exhaus- 

 tion that a long day's chase was powerless to pro- 

 duce were telling on him; his straining bounds 

 first this way and then that, were not now 

 quite so strong, and the spray he snorted as he 

 gasped was half a spray of blood. But his 

 captor, relentless, masterful and cool, still forced 

 him on. Down the slope toward the canon 

 they had come, every yard a fight, and now 

 they were at the head of the draw that took the 

 trail down to the only crossing of the canon, the 

 northmost limit of the Pacer's ancient range. 



From this the first corral and ranch-house 

 were in sight. The man rejoiced, but the 

 Mustang gathered his remaining strength for 

 one more desperate dash. Up, up the grassy 

 slope from the trail he went, defied the swing- 

 ing, slashing rope and the gunshot fired in air, 

 in vain attempt to turn his frenzied course. 



7.6"! 



