Every nerve in the body of Alcatraz urged him to leap away with arrowy
speed, passing even the grey mare--she who now shot off across the hills
far in the van--but behind him raced weaker and slower horses, the older
stallions and the mares with their foals. Instinct proved greater than
fear. He swept around the rear of his diminished company to round up the
laggards, but they were already laboring to the full of their power as
five horsemen streamed across the crest with their rifles carried at the
ready. They were a hardy crew, these cowpunchers of the Jordan ranch,
but to the sternest of them this was ugly work. To draw a bead on a
horse was like gathering the life of a man into the sight of the rifle,
yet they knew that a band of wildrunning mustangs is a perpetual menace.
Already the black leader had recruited his herd with more than one stray
from the Jordan outfit; and it was for the black, first of all, that
they looked. There was no sign of him, and in his place ranged a picture
horse--a beautiful red--chestnut with a gallop that made one's head
swim. Lew Hervey, who had kept his men in cunning ambush near the lake,
had chosen the new leader for a target but shot the colt instead. And it
was Lew Hervey, again, who swung over the crest of the hill and got the
next chance at Alcatraz.

The foreman of the Jordan ranch pitched his rifle to his shoulder just
as the leader, sweeping back to round up the rearmost of his company,
presented a broadside target. It was a sure hit. In the certainty of his
skill Lew Hervey allowed his hand to swing and followed for a strike or
two the rhythm of that racing body. The sunshine of the late afternoon
flashed on the flanks and on the frightened eyes of the stallion; mane
and tail fluttered straight out with his speed; and then he fired, and
jerked up his gun to await the crashing fall of the horse. But Alcatraz
did not drop. That moment of lingering on the part of the foreman saved
him, for through the sights of his rifle Hervey had seen such grace and