ecruited his herd with more than one stray
from the Jordan outfit; and it was for the black, first of all, that
they looked. There was no sign of him, and in his place ranged a picture
horse--a beautiful red--chestnut with a gallop that made one's head
swim. Lew Hervey, who had kept his men in cunning ambush near the lake,
had chosen the new leader for a target but shot the colt instead. And it
was Lew Hervey, again, who swung over the crest of the hill and got the
next chance at Alcatraz.

The foreman of the Jordan ranch pitched his rifle to his shoulder just
as the leader, sweeping back to round up the rearmost of his company,
presented a broadside target. It was a sure hit. In the certainty of his
skill Lew Hervey allowed his hand to swing and followed for a strike or
two the rhythm of that racing body. The sunshine of the late afternoon
flashed on the flanks and on the frightened eyes of the stallion; mane
and tail fluttered straight out with his speed; and then he fired, and
jerked up his gun to await the crashing fall of the horse. But Alcatraz
did not drop. That moment of lingering on the part of the foreman saved
him, for through the sights of his rifle Hervey had seen such grace and
beauty in horseflesh that his nerve was unsteadied. Alcatraz knew the
stinging hum of a bullet past his head; and the foreman knew a miracle.
He could not believe his failure.

"Leave the chestnut to me!" he shouted as his men drove their ponies
over the hill, and pulling his own horse to a stand he jerked the rifle
butt hard against his shoulder and fired again; the only result was a
flirt of the tail of the chestnut as he darted about a hillside and
disappeared. Hervey made no attempt to follow but sat his saddle agape
and staring, thinking ghostly thoughts.

This was the beginning of the legend that Alcatraz bore a charmed life.
For the mountains were rich with Indian folklore which had drifted far
from its source and had come by hook and crook into the lives of the
miners and cowpunchers. Into such a background many a wild tale fitted
and the tale of Alcatraz was to be one of the wildest.

At any rate, the stallion owed his life on this day to the superstition
of Lew Hervey which kept him anchored on his horse until the target was
gone. A dozen times his men could have dropped the chestnut who
persisted with a frantic courage in running behind the rearmost of his
companions, urging them to greater efforts, but since Hervey ha