Old Scarface wriggled in huge enjoyment as the hound puzzled
over the trail so long that when he did find it, it was so stale he
could barely follow it, and did not feel justified in tonguing on it at
all.

As soon as the hound was working up the hill, the fox quietly went
into the woods. I had been sitting in plain view only ten feet away,
but I had the wind and kept still and the fox never knew that his
life had for twenty minutes been in the power of the foe he most
feared. 

Ranger also would have passed me as near as the fox, but I spoke
to him, and with a little nervous start he quit the trail and looking
sheepish lay down by my feet.

This little comedy was played with variations for  several days, but
it was all in plain view from the house across the river. My uncle,
impatient at the daily loss of hens, went out himself, sat on the
open knoll, and when old Scarface trotted to his lookout to watch
the dull hound on the river fiat below, my uncle remorselessly shot
him in the back, at the very moment when  he was grinning over a
new triumph.

IV

But still the hens were disappearing. My uncle was wrathy. He
determined to conduct the war himself, and sowed the woods with
poison baits, trusting to luck that our own dogs would not get
them. He indulged in contemptuous remarks on my by-gone
woodcraft, and went out evenings with a gun and the two dogs, to
see what he could destroy,

Vix knew right well what a poisoned bait was; she passed them by
or else treated them with active contempt, but one she dropped
down the hole of an old enemy, a skunk, who was never afterward
seen. Formerly old Scarface was always ready to take charge of the
dogs, and keep them out of mischief. But now that Vix had the
whole burden of the brood, she could no longer spend time in
breaking every track to the den, and was not always at hand to
meet and mislead the foes that might be coming too near.

The end is easily foreseen. Ranger followed a hot trail to the den,
and Spot, the fox-terrier, announced that the family was at home,
and then did his best to go in after them.

The whole secret was now out, and the whole family doomed. The
hired man came around with pick and shovel to dig them out,
while we and the dogs stood by. Old Vix soon showed herself in
the near woods, and

led the dogs away off down the river, where she shook them off
when she thought proper, by the simple device of springing on a
sheep's back. The frightened animal ran for several hundred yards,
then Vix got off, knowing that there was now a hopeless gap in the
scent, and returned to the den. But the dogs, baffled by the break in
the trail, soon did the same, to find Vix hanging about in despair.
vainly trying to decoy us away Irom her treasures.

Meanwhile Paddy plied both pick and shovel with vigor and effect.
The yellow, gravelly sand was heaping on both sides, and the
shoulders of the sturdy digger were sinking below the level. After
an hour~s digging, enlivened by frantic rushes of the dogs after the
old fox, who hovered near in the woods, Pat called:

"Here they are, sot!"

It was the den at the end of the burrow, and cowering as far back
as they could, were the four little woolly cubs.

Before I could interfere, a murderous blow from the shovel, and a
sudden rush for the fierce little terrier, ended the lives of three.
The fourth and smallest was barely saved by holding him by his
tail high out of reach of the excited dogs.

He gave one short squeal, and his poor mother came at the cry, and
circled so near that she would have been shot but for the accidental
protection of the dogs, who somehow always seemed to get
between, and whom she once more led away on a fruitless chase.

The little one saved alive was dropped into a bag, where he lay
quite still. His unfortunate brothers were thrown back into their
nursery bed, and buried under a few shovelfuls of earth.

We guilty ones then went back into the house, and the little fox
was soon chained in the yard. No one knew just why he was kept
alive, but in all a change of feeling had set in, and the idea of
killing him was without a supporter.

He was a pretty little fellow, like a cross between a fox and a lamb.
His woolly visage and form were strangely lamb-like and innocent,
but one could find in his yellow eyes a gleam of cunning and
savageness as unlamb-like as it possibly could be.

As long as anyone was near he crouched sullen and cowed in his
shelter-box, and it was a full hour after being left alone before he
ventured to look out.

My window now took the place of the hollow bass wood. A
number of hens of the breed he knew so well were about the cub in
the yard. Late that afternoon as they strayed near the captive there
was a sudden rattle of the chain, and the youngster dashed at the
nearest one and would have caught him but for the chain which
 brought him up with a jerk. He got on his feet and slunk back to
his box, and though he afterward made several rushes he so gauged
his leap as to win or fail within the length of the chain and never
again was  brought up by its cruel jerk.

As night came down the little fellow became very uneasy,
sneaking out of his box, but going back at each slight alarm,
tugging at his chain, or at times biting it in fury while he held it
down with his fore paws. Suddenly he paused as though listening,
then raising his little black nose he poured out a short quavering
cry. Once or twice this was repeated, the time between being
occupied in worrying the chain and running about. Then an answer
came. The far-away Yap-yurrr of the old fox. A few minutes later a
shadowy form appeared on the wood-pile. The little one slunk into
his box, but at once returned and ran to meet his mother with all
the gladness that a fox could show. Quick as a flash she seized him
and turned to bear him away by the road she came. But the
moment the end of the chain was reached the cub was rudely
jerked from the old one's mouth, and she, scared by the opening of
a window, fled over the wood-pile.

An hour afterward the cub had ceased to run about or cry. I peeped
out, and by the light of the moon saw the form of the mother at full
length on the ground by the little one, gnawing at something--the
clank of iron told what, it was that cruel chain. And Tip, the little
one, meanwhile was helping himself to a warm drink.

On my going out the fled Into the dark woods, but there by the
shelter-box were two little mice, bloody and still warm, food for
the cub brought by the de~otcd mother. And in the morning I
found the chain was very bright for a foot or two next the little
one's collar.

On walking across the woods to the ruined den, I again found signs
of Vixen. The poor heart-broken mother had come and dug out the
bedraggled bodies of her little ones.

There lay the three little baby foxes all licked smooth now, and by
them were two of our hens fresh killed. The newly heaved earth
was printed all over with telltale signs--signs that told me that here
by the side of her dead she had watched like Rizpah. Here she had
brought their usual meal, the spoil of her nightly hunt. Here she
had stretched herself beside them and vainly offered them their
natural drink and yearned to feed and warm them as of old, but
only stiff little bodies under their soft wool she found, and little
cold noses still and unresponsive.

A deep impress of elbows, breasts, and hocks showed where she
had laid in silent grief and watched them for long and mourned as
a wild mother can mourn for its young. But from that time she
came no more to the ruined den, for now she surely knew that her
little ones were dead. Tip the captive, the weakling of the brood,
was now the heir to all her love. The dogs were loosed to guard
the hens. The hired man had orders to shoot the old fox on
sight--so had I but w~s resolved never to see her. Chicken-heads,
that a fox loves and a dog will not touch, had been poisoned and
scattered through the woods; and the only way to the yard where
Tip was tied, was by climbing the wood-pile after braving all other
dangers.

And yet each night old Vix was there to nurse her baby and bring it
fresh-killed hens and game. Again and again I saw her, although
she came now without awaiting the querulous cry of the captive.

The second night of the captivity I heard the rattle of the chain,
and then made out that the old fox was there, hard at work digging
a hole by the little one's kennel. When it was deep enough to half
bury her, she gathered into it all the slack of the chain, and filled it
again with earth. Then in triumph thinking she had   gotten rid of
the chain, she seized little Tip by the neck and turned to dash off
up the wood-pile, but alas! only to have him jerked roughly from
her grasp.

Poor little fellow, he whimpered sadly as he crawled into his box.
After half an hour there was a great out cry among the dogs, and
by their straight-away tonguing through the far wood I knew they
were chasing Vix. Away up north they went in the direction of the
railway and their noise faded from hearing. Next morning the
hound had not come back. We soon knew why. Foxes long ago
learned what a railroad is; they soon devised several ways of
turning it to account. One way is when hunted to walk the rails for
a long distance just before a train comes. The scent, always poor
on iron, is destroyed by the train and there is always a chance of
hounds being killed by the engine. But another way more sure, but
harder to play, is to lead the hounds straight to a high trestle just
ahead of the train, so that the engine overtakes them on it and they
are surely dashed to destruction.

This trick was skilfully played, and down below we found the
mangled remains of old Ranger and learned that Vix was already
wreaking her revenge.

That same night she returned to the yard before Spot's weary limbs
could bring him back and killed another hen and brought it to Tip,
and stretched her panting length beside him that he might quench
his thirst. For she seemed to think he had no food but what she
brought.

It was that hen that betrayed to my uncle the nightly visits.

My own sympathies were all turning to Vix, and I would have no
hand in planning further murders. Next night my uncle himself
watched, gun in hand, for an hour. Then when it became cold and
the moon clouded over he remembered other important business
elsewhere, and left Paddy in his place.

But Paddy was "onaisy" as the stillness and anxiety of watching
worked on his nerves. And the loud bang! bang! an hour later left
us sure only that powder had been burned.

In the morning we found Vix had not failed her young one. Again
next night found my uncle on guards for another hen had been
taken. Soon after dark a single shot was heard, but Vix dropped the
game she was bringing and escaped. Another attempt made that
night called forth another gunshot. Yet next day it was seen by the
brightness of the chain that she had come again and vainly tried for
hours to cut that hateful bond.

Such courage and stanch fidelity were bound to win respect, if not
toleration. At any rate, there was no gunner in wait next night,
when all was still. Could it  be of any use? Driven off thrice with
gunshots, would she make another try to feed or free her captive
young one? Would she? Hers was a mother's love. There was
but one to watch them this time, the fourth night, when the
quavering whine of the little one was followed by that shadowy
form above the wood pile. 

But carrying no fowl or food that could be seen. Had the keen
huntress failed at last? Had she no head of game for this her only
charge, or had she learned to trust his captors for his food?

No, far from all this. The wild-wood mother's heart and hate were
true. Her only thought had been to set him free. All means she
knew she tried, and every danger braved to tend him well and help
him to be free. But all had failed.

Like a shadow she came and in a moment was gone, and Tip
seized on something dropped, and crunched and chewed with
relish what she brought. But even as he ate, a knife-like pang shot
through and a scream of pain escaped him. Then there was a
momentary struggle and the little fox was dead.

The mother's love was strong in Vix, but a higher thought was
stronger. She knew right well the poison's power; she knew the
poison bait, and would have taught him had he lived to know and
shun it too. But now at last when she must choose for him a
wretched prisoner's life or sudden death, she quenched the mother
in her breast and freed him by the one remaining door.

It is when the snow is on the ground that we take the census of the
woods, and when the winter came it told me that Vix no longer
roamed the woods of Erindale. Where she went it never told, but
only this, that she was gone.

Gone, perhaps, to some other far-off haunt to leave behind the sad
remembrance of her murdered little ones and mate. Or gone, may
be, deliberately, from the scene of a sorrowful life, as many a
wild-wood mother has gone, by the means that she herself had
used to free her young one, the last of all her brood.

THE PACING MUSTANG

I

JO CALONE threw down his saddle on the dusty ground, turned
his horses loose, and went clanking into the ranchhouse.

"Nigh about chuck time?" he asked.

"Seventeen minutes," said the cook glancing at the Waterbury,
with the air of a train starter, though this show of precision had
never yet been justified by events.

"How's things on the Perico?" said Jo's pard.

"Hotter'n hinges," said Jo. "Cattle seem 0. K.; lots of calves."

"I seen that bunch o' mustangs that waters at Antelope Springs;
couple o' colts along; one little dark one, a fair dandy; a born
pacer. I run them a mile or two, and be led the bunch, an' never
broke his pace. Cut loose, an' pushed them jest for fun, an' darned
if I could make him break,"

"You didn't have no reefreshments along?" said Scarth,
incredulously.

"That's all right, Scarth. You had to crawl on our last bet, an' you'll
get another chance soon as you're man enough."

"Chuck," shouted the cook, and the subject was dropped. Next day
the scene of the roundup was changed, and the mustangs were
forgotten.

A year later the same corner of New Mexico was worked over by
the roundup, and again the mustang bunch was seen. The dark colt
was now a black yearling, with thin, clean legs and glossy flanks;
and more than one of the boys saw with his own eyes this
oddity--the mustang was a born pacer. Jo was along, and the idea
now struck him that that colt was worth having. To an Easterner
this thought may not seem startling or original, but in the West,
where an unbroken horse is worth $5, and where an ordinary
saddlehorse is worth $15 or $20, the idea of a wild mustang being
desirable property does not occur to the average cowboy, for
mustangs are hard to catch, and when caught are merely wild
animal prisoners, perfectly useless and untamable to the last, Not a
few of the cattle-owners make a point of shooting all mustangs at
sight, they are not only useless cumberers of the feeding-grounds,
but commonly lead away domestic horses, which soon take to wild
life and are thenceforth lost.

Wild Jo Calone knew a 'bronk right down to subsoil.' "I never secn
a white that wasn't soft, nor a chestnut that wasn't nervous, nor a
bay that wasn't good if broke right, nor a black that wasn't hard as
nails, an' full of the old Harry. All a black bronk wants is claws to
be wus'n Daniel's hull outfit of lions.' 

Since, then, a mustang is worthless vermin, and a black mustang
ten times worse than worthless, Jo's pard  "didn't see no sense in
Jo's wantin' to corral the yearling," as he now seemed intent on
doing. But Jo got no chance to try that year.

He was only a cow-puncher on $25 a month, and tied to hours.
Like most of the boys, he always looked forward to having a ranch
and an outfit of his own. His brand, the hogpen, of sinister
suggestion, was already registered at Santa Fe, but of horned stock
it was borne by a single old cow, so as to give him a legal right to
put his brand on any maverick (or unbranded animal) he might
chance to find.

Yet each fall, when paid off, Jo could not resist the temptation to
go to town with the boys and have a good time 'while the stuff held
out.' So that his property consisted of little more than his saddle,
his bed, and his old cow. He kept on hoping to make a strike that
would leave him well fixed with a fair start, and when the thought
came that the Black Mustang was his mascot, he only needed a
chance to 'make the try.'

The roundup circled down to the Canadian River, and back in the
fall by the Don Carlos Hills, and Jo saw no more of the Pacer,
though he heard of him from many quarters, for the colt, now a
vigorous, young horse, rising three, was beginning to be talked of.

Antelope Springs is in the middle of a great level plain. When the
water is high it spreads into a small lake with a belt of sedge
around it; when it is low there is a wide flat of black mud,
glistening white with alkali in places, and the spring a water-hole
in the middle. It has no flow or outlet and is fairly good water, the
only drinking-place for many miles.

This flat, or prairie as it would be called farther north, was the
favorite feeding-ground of the Black Stallion, but it was also the
pasture of many herds of range horses and cattle. Chiefly
interested was the 'L cross F' outfit. Foster, the manager and part
owner, was a man of enterprise. He believed it would pay to
handle a better class of cattle and horses on the range, and one of
his ventures was ten half-blooded mares, tall, clean-limbed,
deer-eyed creatures that made the scrub cow-ponies look like
pitiful starvelings of some degenerate and quite different species.

One of these was kept stabled for use, but the nine, after the
weaning of their colts, managed to get away and wandered off on
the range.

A horse has a fine instinct for the road to the best feed, and the
nine mares drifted, of course, to the prairie of Antelope Springs,
twenty miles to the southward, And when, later that summer Foster
went to round them up, he found the nine indeed, but with them
and guarding them with an air of more than mere comradeship was
a coal-black stallion, prancing around and rounding up the bunch
like an expert, his jet-black coat a vivid contrast to the golden
hides of his harem.

The mares were gentle, and would have been easily driven
homeward but for a new and unexpected thing. The Black Stallion
became greatly aroused. He seemed to inspire them too with his
wildness, and flying this way and that way drove the whole band at
full gallop where he would. Away they went, and the little
cow-ponies that carried the men were easily left behind.

This was maddening, and both men at last drew their guns and
sought a chance to drop that 'blasted stallion.' But no chance came
that was not 9 to 1 of dropping one of the mares. A long day of
manoeuvring made no change. The Pacer, for it was he, kept his
family together and disappeared among the southern sand-hills.
The cattlemen on their jaded ponies set out for home with the poor
satisfaction of vowing vengeance for their failure on the superb
cause of it.

One of the most aggravating parts of it was that one or two
experiences like this would surely make the mares as wild as the
Mustang, and there seemed to be no way of saving them from it.

Scientists differ on the power of beauty and prowess to attract
female admiration among the lower animals, but whether it is
admiration or the prowess itself, it is certain that a wild animal of
uncommon gifts soon wins a large following from the harems of
his rivals. And the great Black Horse, with his inky mane and tail
and his green-lighted eyes, ranged through all that region and
added to his following from many bands till not less than a score
of mares were in his 'bunch.' Most were merely humble
cow-ponies turned out to range, but the nine great mares were
there, a striking group by themselves. According to all reports, this
bunch was always kept rounded up and guarded with such energy
and jealously that a mare, once in it, was a lost animal so far as
man was concerned, and the ranchmen realized soon that they had
gotten on the range a mustang that was doing them more harm
than all other sources of loss put together.

II

It was December, 1893. I was new in the country, and was setting
out from the ranch-house on the Pi¤avetitos, to go with a wagon to
the Canadian River. As I was leaving, Foster finished his remark
by: "And if you get a chance to draw a bead on that accursed
mustang, don't fail to drop him in his tracks." 

This was the first I had heard of him, and as I rode along I gathered
from Burns, my guide, the history that has been given. I was full of
curiosity to see the famous three-year-old, and was not a little
disappointed on the second day when we came to the prairie on
Antelope Springs and saw no sign of the Pacer or his band.

But on the next day, as we crossed the Alamosa Ar. royo, and were
rising to the rolling prairie again, Jack Burns, who was riding on
ahead, suddenly dropped flat on the neck of his horse, and swung
back to me in the wagon, saying:

"Get out your rifle, here's that--stallion."

I seized my rifle, and hurried forward to a view over the prairie
ridge. In the hollow below was a band of horses, and there at one
end was the Great Black Mustang. He had heard some sound of
our approach, and was not unsuspicious of danger. There he stood
with head and tail erect, and nostrils wide, an image of horse
perfection and beauty, as noble an animal as ever ranged the
plains, and the mere notion of turning that magnificent creature
into a mass of carrion was horrible. In spite of Jack's exhortation to
'shoot quick,' I delayed, and threw open the breach, whereupon he,
always hot and hasty, swore at my slowness, growled, 'Gi' me that
gun,' and as he seized it I turned the muzzle up, and accidentally
the gun went off.

Instantly the herd below was all alarm, the great black leader
snorted and neighed and dashed about. And the mares bunched,
and away all went in a rumble of hoofs, and a cloud of dust.

The Stallion careered now on this side, now on that, and kept his
eye on all and led and drove them far away. As long as I could see
I watched, and never once did he break his pace.

Jack made Western remarks about me and my gun, as well as that
mustang, but I rejoiced in the Pacer's strength and beauty, and not
for all the mares in the bunch would I have harmed his glossy hide.

III

There are several ways of capturing wild horses. One is by
creasing--that is, grazing the animal's nape with a rifle-ball so that
he is stunned long enough for hobbling.

"Yest I seen about a hundred necks broke trying it, but I never seen
a mustang creased yet," was Wild Jo's critical remark.

Sometimes, if the shape of the country abets it, the herd can be
driven into a corral; sometimes with extra fine mounts they can be
run down, but by far the commonest way, paradoxical as it may
seem, is to walk them down.

The fame of the Stallion that never was known to gallop was
spreading. Extraordinary stories were told of his gait, his speed,
and his wind, and when old Montgomery of the 'triangle-bar' outfit
came out plump at Well's Hotel in Clayton, and in presence of
witnesses said he'd give one thousand dollars cash for him safe in a
box-car, providing the stories were true, a dozen young
cow-punchers were eager to cut loose and win the purse, as soon
as present engagements were up. But Wild Jo had had his eye on
this very deal for quite a while; there was no time to lose, so
ignoring present contracts he rustled all night to raise the necessary
equipment for the game.

By straining his already overstrained credit, and taxing the already
overtaxed generosity of his friends, lie got together an expedition
consisting of twenty good saddle-horses, a mess-wagon, and a
fortnight's stuff for three men--himself, his 'pard,' Charley, and the
cook.

Then they set out from Clayton, with the avowed intention of
walking down the wonderfully swift wild horse. The third day they
arrived at Antelope Springs, and as it was about noon they were
not surprised to see the black Pacer marching down to drink with
all his band behind him. Jo kept out of sight until the wild horses
each and all had drunk their fill, for a thirsty animal always travels
better than one laden with water.

Jo then rode quietly forward. The Pacer took alarm at half a mile,
and led his band away out of sight on the soapweed mesa to the
southeast. Jo followed at a gailop till he once more sighted them,
then came back and instructed the cook, who was also teamster, to
make for Alamosa Arroyo in the south. Then away to the southeast
he went after the mustangs. After a mile or two he once more
sighted them, and walked his horse quietly till so near that they
again took alarm and circled away to the south. An hour's trot, not
on the trail, but cutting across to where they ought to go, brought
Jo again in close sight. Again he walked quietly toward the herd,
and again there was the alarm and ifight. And so they passed the
afternoon, but circled ever more and more to the south, so that
when the sun was low they were, as Jo had expected, not far from
Alamosa Arroyo. The band was again close at hand, and Jo, after
starting them off, rode to the wagon, while his pard, who had been
taking it easy, took up the slow chase on a fresh horse.

After supper the wagon moved on to the upper ford of the
Alamosa, as arranged, and there camped for the night.

Meanwhile, Charley followed the herd. They had not run so far as
at first, for their pursuer made no sign of attack, and they were
getting used to his company. They were more easily found, as the
shadows fell, on account of a snow-white mare that was in the
bunch. A young moon in the sky now gave some help, and relying
on his horse to choose the path, Charley kept him quietly walking
after the herd, represented by that ghost-white mare, till they were
lost in the night. He then got off, unsaddled and picketed his horse,
and in his blanket quickly went to sleep.

At the first streak of dawn he was up, and within a short half-mile,
thanks to the snowy mare, he found the band. At his approach, the
shrill neigh of the Pacer bugled his troop into a flying squad. But
on the first mesa they stopped, and faced about to see what this
persistent follower was, and what he wanted. For a moment or so
they stood against the sky to gaze, and then deciding that he knew
him as well as he wished to, that black meteor flung his mane on
the wind, and led off at his tireless, even swing, while the mares
came streaming after.

Away they went, circling now to the west, and after several
repetitions of this same play, flying, following, and overtaking, and
flying again, they passed, near noon, the old Apache look-out,
Buffalo Bluff. Anti here, on watch, was Jo. A long thin column of
smoke told Charley to come to camp, and with a flashing
pocket-mirror he made response. Jo, freshly mounted, rode across,
and again took up the chase, and back came Chancy to camp to eat
and rest, and then move on up stream.

All that day Jo followed, and managed, when it was needed, that
the herd should keep the great cirde, of  which the wagon cut a
small chord. At sundown he came to Verde Crossing, and there
was Charley with a fresh horse and food, and Jo went on in the
same calm, dogged way. All the evening he followed, and far into
the night, for the wild herd was now getting somewhat used to the
presence of the harmless strangers, and were more easily followed;
moreover, they were thing out with perpetual traveling. They were
no longer in the good grass country, they were not grain.fed like
the horses on their track, and above all, the slight but continuous
nervous tension was surely telling. It spoiled their appetities, but
made them very thirsty. They were  allowed, and as far as possible
encouraged, to drink deeply at every chance. The effect of large
quantities of water on a running animal is well known; it tends to
stiffen the limbs and spoil the wind. Jo carefully guarded his own
horse against such excess, and both he and his horse were fresh
when they camped that night on the trail of the jaded mustangs.

At dawn he found them easily close at hand, and though they ran at
first they did not go far before theydropped into a walk. The battle
seemed nearly won now, for the chief difficulty in the 'walk-down'
is to keep track of the herd the first two or three days when they
are fresh.

All that morning Jo kept in sight, generally in close sight, of the
band. About ten o'clock, Charley relieved him near Jos‚ Peak and
that day the mustangs walked only a quarter of a mile ahead with
much less spirit than the day before and circled now more north
again. At night Charley was supplied with a fresh horse and
followed as before.

Next day the mustangs walked with heads held low, and in spite of
the efforts of the Black Pacer at times they were less than a
hundred yards ahead of their pursuer.

The fourth and fifth days passed the same way, and now the herd
was nearly back to Antelope Springs. So far all had come out as
expected. The chase had been in a great circle with the wagon
following a lesser circle. The wild herd was back to its
starting-point, worn out; and the hunters were back, fresh and on
fresh horses. The herd was kept from drinking till late in the
afternoon and then driven to the Springs to swell themselves with
a perfect water gorge. Now was the chance for the skilful ropers on
the grain-fed horses to close in, for the sudden heavy drink was
ruination, almost paralysis, of wind and limb, and it would be easy
to rope and hobble them one by one.

There was only one weak spot in the programme, the Black
Stallion, the cause of the hunt, seemed made of iron, that ceaseless
swinging pace seemed as swift and vigorous now as on the
morning when the chase began. Up and down he went rounding up
the herd and urging them on by voice and example to escape. But
they were played out. The old white mare that had been such help
in sighting them at night, had dropped out hours ago, dead beat.
The half-bloods seemed to be losing all fear of the horsemen, the
band was clearly in Jo's power. But the one who was the prize of
all the hunt seemed just as far as ever out of reach.

Here was a puzzle. Jo's comrades knew him well and would not
have been surprised to see him in a sudden rage attempt to shoot
the Stallion down. But Jo had no such mind. During that long
week of following he had watched the horse all day at speed and
never once had he seen him gallop.

The horseman's adoration of a noble horse had grown and grown,
till now he would as soon have thought of shooting his best mount
as firing on that splendid beast.

Jo even asked himself whether he would take the handsome sum
that was offered for the prize. Such an animal would be a fortune
in himself to sire a race of  pacers for the track.

But the prize was still at large--the time had come to finish up the
hunt. Jo's finest mount was caught. She was a mare of Eastern
blood, but raised on the plains. She never would have come into
Jo's possession but for a curious weakness. The loco is a poisonous
weed that grows in these regions. Most stock will not touch it; but
sometimes an animal tries it and becomes addicted to it.

It acts somewhat like morphine, but the animal, though sane for
long intervals, has always a passion for the herb and finally dies
mad. A beast with the craze is said to be locoed. And Jo's best
mount had a wild gleam in her eye that to an expert told the tale.

But she was swift and strong and Jo chose her for the grand finish
of the chase. It would have been an easy matter now to rope the
mares, but was no longer necessary. They could be separated from
their black leader and driven home to the corral. But that leader
still had the look of untamed strength. Jo, rejoicing in a worthy
foe, went bounding forth to try the odds. The lasso was flung on
the ground and trailed to take out every kink, and gathered as he
rode into neatest coils across his left palm. Then putting on the
spur the first time in that chase he rode straight for the Stallion a
quarter of a mile beyond. Away he went, and away went Jo, each
at his best, while the fagged-out mares scattered right and left and
let them pass. Straight across the open plain the fresh horse went at
its hardest gallop, and the

 ~'  Stallion, leading off, still kept his start and kept his famous
swing.

It was incredible, and Jo put on more spur and shouted to his
horse, which fairly flew, but shortened up the space between by
not a single inch. For the Black One whirled across the flat and up
and passed a soap-weed mesa and down across a sandy treacherous
plain, then over a grassy stretch where prairie dogs barked, then
hid below, and on came Jo, but there to see, could he believe his
eyes, the Stallion's start grown longer still, and Jo began to curse
his luck, and urge and spur his horse until the poor uncertain brute
got in~to such a state of nervous fright, her eyes began to roll, she
wildly shook her head from side to side, no longer picked her
ground--a badger-hole received her foot and down she went, and
Jo went flying to the earth. Though badly bruised, he gained his
feet and tried to mount his crazy beast. But she, poor brute, was
done for--her off fore-leg hung loose.

There was but one thing to do. Jo loosed the cinch, put Lightfoot
out of pain, and carried back the saddle to the camp. While the
Pacer steamed away till lost to view.

This was not quite defeat, for all the mares were manageable now,
and Jo and Charley drove them carefully to the 'L cross F' corra' nd
claimed a good reward. But Jo was more than ever bound to own
the Stallion. He had seen what stuff he was made of, he prized him
more and more, and only sought to strike

some better plan to catch him.     - 

IV

The cook on that trip was Bates--Mr. Thomas Bates, he called
himself at the post-office where he regularly went for the letters
and remittance which never came. Old Tom Turkeytrack, the boys
called him, from his cattle-brand, which he said was on record at
Denver, and which, according to his story, was also borne by
countless beef and saddle stock on the plains of the unknown
North.

When asked to join the trip as a partner, Bates made some
sarcastic remarks about horses not fetching $12 a dozen, which
had been literally true within the year,

and he preferred to go on a very meagre salary. But no one who
once saw the Pacer going had failed to catch the craze.
Turkeytrack experienced the usual change of heart. He now
wanted to own that mustang. How this

was to be brought about he did not clearly see till one day there
called at the ranch that had 'secured his services,' as he put it, one,
Bill Smith, more usually known

as Horseshoe Billy, from his cattle-brand. While the excellent
fresh beef and bread and the vile coffee, dried

peaches and molasses were being consumed, he of the horsshoe
remarked, in tones which percolated through a huge stop-gap of
bread:

"Wall, I seen that thar Pacer to-day, nigh enough to put a plait in
his tail."

"What, you didn't shoot?"

"No, but I come mighty near it."

"Don't you be led into no sich foolishness," said a 'double-bar H'
cow-puncher at the other end of the table. "I calc'late that maverick
'ill carry my brand before the moon changes."

"You'll have to be pretty spry or you'll find a 'triangle dot' on his
weather side when you get there."

"Where did you run across him?"

"Wail, it was like this; I was riding the flat by Antelope Springs
and I sees a lump on the dry mud inside the rush belt. 1 knowed I
never seen that before, so I rides up, thinking it might be some of
our stock, an' seen it was a horse lying plumb flat. The wind was
blowing like--from him to me, so I rides up close and seen it was
the Pacer, dead as a mackerel. Still, he didn't look swelled or cut,
and there wa'n't no smell, an' I didn't know what to think till I seen
his ear twitch off a fly and then I knowed he was sleeping. I gits
down me rope and coils it, and seen it was old and pretty shaky in
spots, and me saddle a single cinch, an' me pony about 700 again
a 1,200 lbs. stallion, an' I sez to meseif, sez I: 'Tain't no use, I'll
only break me cinch and git throwed an' lose me saddle.' So I hits
the saddle-horn a crack with the hondu, and I wish't you'd a seen
that mustang. He lept six foot in the air an' snorted like he was
shunting cars. His eyes fairly bugged out an' he lighted out lickety
split for California, and he orter be there about now if he kep'
on like he started--and I swear he never made a break the hull
trip."

The story was not quite so consecutive as given here. It was much
punctuated by present engrossments, and from first to last was
more or less infiltrated through the necessaries of life, for Bill was
a healthy young man without a trace of false shame. But the
account was cornplete and everyone believed it, for Billy was
known to be reliable. Of all those who heard, old Turkeytrack
talked the least and probably thought the most, for it gave him a
new idea.

During his after-dinner pipe he studied it out and deciding that he
could not go it alone, he took Horseshoe Billy into his council and
the result was a partnership in a new venture to capture the Pacer;
that is, the $5,000 that was now said to be the offer for him safe in
a box-car.

Antelope Springs was still the usual watering-place of the Pacer.
The water being low left a broad belt of dry black mud between
the sedge and the spring. At two places this belt was broken by a
well-marked trail made by the animals coming to drink. Horses
and wild animals usually kept to these trails, though the horned
cattle had no hesitation in taking a short cut through the sedge.

In the most used of these trails the two men set to work with
shovels and dug a pit 15 feet long, 6 feet wide and 7 feet deep. It
was a hard twenty hours work for them as it had to be completed
between the Mustang's drinks, and it began to be very damp work
before it was finished. With poles, brush, and earth it was then
cleverly covered over and concealed. And the men went to a
distance and bid in pits made for the purpose.

About noon the Pacer came, alone now since the cap. ture of his
band. The trail on the opposite side of the mud belt was little used,
and old Tom, by throwing some fresh rushes across it, expected to
make sure that the Stallion would enter by the other, if indeed he
should by any caprice try to come by the unusual path.

What sleepless angel is it watches over and cares for the wild
animals? In spite of all reasons to take the usual path, the Pacer
came along the other. The suspicious-looking rushes did not stop
him; he walked calmly to the water and drank. There was only one
way now to prevent utter failure; when he lowered his head for the
second draft which horses always take, Bates and Smith quit their
holes and ran swiftly toward the trail behind him, and when he
raised his proud head Smith sent a revolver shot into the ground
behind him.

Away went the Pacer at his famous gait straight to the trap.
Another second and he would be into it. Already he is on the trail,
and already they feel they have him, but the Angel of the wild
things is with him, that incomprehensible warning comes, and with
one mighty bound he clears the fifteen feet of treacherous ground
and spurns the earth as he fades away unharmed, never again to
visit Antelope Springs by either of the beaten paths.

V

Wild Jo never lacked energy. He meant to catch that Mustang, and
when he learned that others were be stirring themselves for the
same purpose he at once set about trying the best untried plan he
knew--the plan by which the coyote catches the fleeter jackrabbit,
and the mounted Indian the far swifter antelope--the old plan of
the relay chase.

The Canadian River on the south, its affluent, the Pinavetitos
Arroyo, on the northeast, and the Don Carlos Hills with the Ute
Creek Ca¤on 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 dowh the slope and up upon the track, and
on the upland once more drove 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 wrangler, 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 lonely life all winter since the capture of his harem,
and of this old Turkeytrack was fully aware. The old cook's chum
had a nice little brown mare which he judged would serve his
ends, and taking a pair of the strongest hobbles, a spade, a spare
lasso, and a stout post he mounted the mare and rode away to the
famous Springs.

A few antelope skimmed over the plain before him in the early
freshness of the day. Cattle were lying about in groups, and the
loud, sweet song of the prairie lark was' heard on every side. For
the bright snowless winter of the mesas was gone and the
springtime was at hand. The grass was greening and all nature
seemed turning to thoughts of love.

It was in the air, and when the little brown mare was picketed out
to graze she raised her nose from time to time to pour forth a long
shrill whinny that surely was her song, if song she had, of love.

Old Turkeytrack studied the wind and the lay of the land. There
was the pit he had labored at, now opened and filled with water
that was rank with drowned prairie dogs and mice. Here was the
new trail the animals were forced to make by the pit. He selected a
sedgy clump near some smooth, grassy ground, and first firmly
sunk the post, then dug a hole large enough to hide in, and spread
his blanket in it. He shortened up the little mare's tether, till she
could scarcely move; then on the ground between he spread his
open lasso, tying the long end to the post, then covered the rope
with dust and grass, and went into his hiding-place.

About noon, after long waiting, the amorous whinny of the mare
was answered from the high ground, away to the west, and there,
black against the sky, was the famous Mustang.

Down he came at that long swinging gait, but grown crafty with
much pursuit, he often stopped to gaze and whinny, and got answer
that surely touched his heart.

Nearer he came again to call, then took alarm, and paced all
around in a great circle to try the wind for his foes, and seemed in
doubt. The Angel whispered "Don't go." But the brown mare called
again. He circled nearer still, and neighed once more, and got reply
that seemed to quell all fears, and set his heart aglow.

Nearer still he pranced, till he touched Soiiy's nose with his own,
and finding her as responsive as he well could wish, thrust aside
all thoughts of danger, and abandoned himself to the delight of
conquest, until, as he pranced around, his hind legs for a moment
stood within the evil circle of the rope. One deft sharp twitch, the
noose flew tight, and he was caught.

A snort of terror and a bound in the air gave Tom the chance to
add the double hitch. The loop flashed up the line, and snake-like
bound those mighty hoofs.