ler, rode and rode and yelled and tossed the dust with
shots, but down on 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 back to the Big Arroyo Crossing.
Now almost for the first time he saw signs of weakening in the Black.
His mane and tail were not just quite so high, and his short half mile
of start was down by more than half, but still he stayed ahead and paced
and paced and paced.

An hour and another hour, and still they went the same. But they turned
again, and night was near when Big Arroyo ford was reached--fully twenty
miles. But Jo was game, he seized the waiting horse. The one he left
went gasping to the stream and gorged himself with water till he died.

Then Jo held back in hopes the foaming Black would drink. But he was
wise; he gulped a single gulp, splashed through the stream and then
passed on with Jo at speed behind him. And when they last were seen the
Black was on ahead just out of reach and Jo's horse bounding on.

It was morning when Jo came to camp on foot. His tale was briefly
told:--eight horses dead--five men worn out--the matchless Pacer safe
and free.

"Tain't possible; it can't be done. Sorry I didn't bore his hellish
carcass through when I had the chance," said Jo, and gave it up.

VI

Old Turkeytrack was cook on this trip. He had watched the chase with as
much interest as anyone, and when it failed he grinned into the pot and
said: "That mustang's mine unless I'm a darned fool." Then falling back
on Scripture for a precedent, as was his habit, he still addressed the
pot:

"Reckon the Philistines tried to run Samson down and they got done up,
an' would a stayed don ony for a nat'ral weakness on his part. An' Adam
would a loafed in Eden yit it ony for a leetle failing, which we all
onder stand. An' it aint $5,000 I'll take for him nuther."

Much persecution had made the Pacer wilder than ever. But it did not
drive him away from Antelope Springs. That was the only drinking-place
with absolutely no shelter for a mile on every side to hide an enemy.
Here he came almost every day about noon, and after thoroughly spying
the land approached to drink.

His had been a l