beauty in horseflesh that his nerve was unsteadied. Alcatraz knew the
stinging hum of a bullet past his head; and the foreman knew a miracle.
He could not believe his failure.

"Leave the chestnut to me!" he shouted as his men drove their ponies
over the hill, and pulling his own horse to a stand he jerked the rifle
butt hard against his shoulder and fired again; the only result was a
flirt of the tail of the chestnut as he darted about a hillside and
disappeared. Hervey made no attempt to follow but sat his saddle agape
and staring, thinking ghostly thoughts.

This was the beginning of the legend that Alcatraz bore a charmed life.
For the mountains were rich with Indian folklore which had drifted far
from its source and had come by hook and crook into the lives of the
miners and cowpunchers. Into such a background many a wild tale fitted
and the tale of Alcatraz was to be one of the wildest.

At any rate, the stallion owed his life on this day to the superstition
of Lew Hervey which kept him anchored on his horse until the target was
gone. A dozen times his men could have dropped the chestnut who
persisted with a frantic courage in running behind the rearmost of his
companions, urging them to greater efforts, but since Hervey had
selected this as his own prize his men dared not shoot.

It was a strange and beautiful thing to see that king of horses--sweep
back around the slowest of his mustangs, shake his head at the barking
guns, and then circle forward again as though he would show the laggard
what running should be. The cowpunchers could have shot him as he veered
back; they could have salted him with lead as he flashed broadside, but
the orders of their chief restrained them. Lew Hervey's lightest word