n was a maverick no more.

Now all there was to do was to take him home. The ropes were loosed, the
Mustang felt himself freed, thought he was free, and sprang to his feet
only to fall as soon as he tried to take a stride. His forefeet were
strongly tied together, his only possible gait a shuffling walk, or else
a desperate labored bounding with feet so unnaturally held that within a
few yards he was inevitably thrown each time he tired to break away.
Tom on the light pony headed him off again and again, and by dint of
driving, threatening, and maneuvering, contrived to force his foaming,
crazy captive northward toward the Pinavetitos Canyon. 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 exhaustion that a long
day's chase was powerless to produce 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 canyon 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 swinging, slashing rope and the gunshot fired in air, in vain
attempt to turn his frenzied course. Up, up and on, above the sheerest
cliff he dashed then sprang away into the vacant air, down--down--two
hundred downward feet to fall, and land upon the rocks below, a lifeless
wreck--but free.

WULLY, The Story of a Yaller Dog

WULLY WAS a little yaller dog. A yaller dog, be it understood, is not
necessarily the same as a yellow dog. He is not simply a canine whose
capillary covering is highly charged with yellow pigment. He is the
mongrelest mixture of all mongrels, the least common multiple of all
dogs, the breedless union of all breeds, and though of no breed at all,
he is yet of older, better breed than any of his aristocratic relations,
for he is nature's attempt to restore the ancestr