on the south, its affluent, the Pinavetitos Arroyo,
on the northeast, and the Don Carlos Hills with the Ute Creek Canyon on
the west, formed a sixty-mile triangle that was the range of the Pacer.
It was believed that he never went outside this, and at all times
Antelope Springs was his headquarters.

Jo knew this country well, all the water-holes and canon crossings as
well as the ways of the Pacer.

If he could have gotten fifty good horses he could have posted them to
advantage so as to cover all points, but twenty mounts and five good
riders were all that proved available.

The horses, grain-fed for two weeks before, were sent on ahead; each man
was instructed how to play his part and sent to his post the day before
the race. On the day of the start Jo with his wagon drove to the plain
of Antelope Springs and, camping far off in a little draw, waited.

At last he came, that coal-black Horse, out from the sand-hills at the
south, alone as always now, and walked calmly down to the Springs and
circled quite around it to sniff for any hidden foe. Then he approached
where there was no trail at all and drank.

Jo watched and wished that he would drink a hogs-head. But the moment
that he turned and sought the grass Jo spurred his steed. The Pacer
heard the hoofs, then saw the running horse, and did not want a nearer
view but led away. Across the flat he went down to the south, and kept
the famous swinging gait that made his start grow longer. Now through
the sandy dunes he went, and steadying to an even pace he gained
considerably and Jo's too-laden horse plunged through the sand and
sinking fetlock deep, he lost at every bound. Then came a level stretch
where the runner seemed to gain, and then a long decline where Jo's
horse dared not run his best, so lost again at every step.

But on they went, and Jo spared neither spur nor quirt. A mile--a
mile--and another mile, and the far-off rock at Arriba loomed up ahead.

And there Jo knew fresh mounts were held, and on they dashed. But the
night-black mane out level on the breeze ahead was gaining more and
more.

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 on the waiting mount,
then urged him down the slope and up upon the track, and on the upland
once more drove