had a weight with them.

However, before and behind the leader of the herd their guns did deadly
work. Brood mares, stallions young and old, even the foals were dropped.
It was horrible work to the hardest of them but this horseflesh was
useless. Too many times they had seen mustangs taken and ridden and when
they were not hopeless outlaws they became broken-spirited and useless,
as though their strength lay in their freedom. With that gone they were
valueless even as slaves of men.

Before the slaughter ended, young or old there was not a horse left in
the band of Alcatraz save the grey mare far ahead. She was already
beyond range, and as the last of the fleeing horses pitched heavily
forward and lay still with oddly sprawling limbs, old Bud Seymour drew
rein and shoved his rifle back into the long holster.

"Now, look!" he called, as his companions pulled up beside him. "That
grey is fast as a streak--but look! look!"

For the red-chestnut was bounding away in pursuit of his last companion
with a winged gallop. It seemed that the wind caught him up and buoyed
him from stride to stride, and the cowpunchers with hungry, burning eyes
watched without a word until the grey and the chestnut blurred on the
horizon and dipped out of view together. The spell was broken in the
same instant by a stream of profanity floating up from the rear. It was
Lew Hervey approaching and swearing his mightiest.

"But I dunno," said Bud Seymour softly. "I feel kind of glad that Lew
missed."