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 hardest race of all, with gasps for breath and leather squeaks at
every straining bound. Then cutting right across, Jo seemed to gain, and
drawing his gun he fired shot after shot to toss the dust, and so turned
the Stallion's head and forced him back to take the crossing to the
right.

Down they went. The Stallion crossed and Jo sprang to the ground. His
horse was done, for thirty miles had passed in the last stretch, and Jo
himself was worn out. His eyes were burnt with flying alkali dust. He
was half blind so he motioned to his 'pard' to "go ahead and keep him
straight for Alamosa ford."

Out shot the rider on a strong, fresh steed, and away they went--up and
down on the rolling plain--the Black Horse flecked with snowy foam.
His heaving ribs and noisy breath showed what he felt--but on and on he
Went.

And Tom on Ginger seemed to gain, then lose and lose, when in an hour
the long decline of Alamosa came.

And there a freshly mounted lad took up the chase and turned it west,
and on they went past towns of prairie dogs, through soapweed tracts and
cactus brakes by scores, and pricked and wrenched rode on. With dust and
sweat the Black was now a dappled brown, but still he stepped the same.
Young Carrington, who followed, bad hurt his steed by pushing at the
very start, and spurred 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 wrang