Being nearer to the river than to the canon wall it was in the latter direction that the stallion found the wider free space and towards it, accordingly, he directed his flight, running as he had only run when the lofer wolf dogged his heels.  It was only a feint.  His eye was too keen in the calculation of distances and relative speeds not to realize that the cowpony would beat him to the goal, yet he kept up his furious pace even when Perris had checked his horse to a trot.  Straight on swept Alcatraz until he saw the glitter of the hunter’s eyes beneath the wide brim of his sombrero—­then he braced his legs, knocking up a small shower of sand and rocks, swerved to the left, and bolted for the river bank.

Even as he made the move, though blinded by the fierceness of his own effort, he knew that it would be a tight squeeze.  Had the pony under Perris possessed half of its ordinary speed of foot it would easily have headed the fugitive or at the least brought its rider in rope-throw, now, outworn by the long trail it had followed, the little animal stumbled and almost fell when Perris with iron hand swung it around.  That blunder lost fatal yards, but still it did its honest best.  It was a veteran of many a round-up.  No pony in the arduous work of cutting out was surer of eye or quicker of foot, and now this dodging back and forth brought a gleam into the bronco’s eyes.  There was no need of the goading spur of Perris to make it spring forth at full speed, running on nerve-power in place of the sapped strength of muscle.

The stumble had given Alcatraz a fighting chance for his freedom—­that was all.  He recognized the flying peril as he raced in a wide loping semicircle.  If the river were twenty yards further off he, running two feet to the cowpony’s one, would brush through safely, but as it was no one could tell.  He knew the reach of a lariat as well as a man; had not Cordova tormented him devilishly with one time and again?  Estimating the speed of his approaching enemy and the reach of the rope he felt that he could still gain freedom—­unless luck was against him.

The burst of Alcatraz for the river and safety was a remarkable explosion of energy.  Out of the corner of his reddening eye, as he gained swift impetus after his swerve, he saw the cowpony wheel, falter, and then burst across in pursuit to close the gap.  He heeled over to the left, and found a mysterious source of energy within him that enabled his speed to be increased, until, at the top of his racing gait, he reached the very verge of the stream.  There remained nothing now but a straight dash for freedom.

Luck favored him in one respect at least.  The swollen current of the Little Smoky had eaten away its banks so that there was a sheer drop, straight as a cliff in most places, to the water, and the cliff-edge above was solidly compacted sand and gravel.  A better race-track could hardly have been asked and the heart of Alcatraz swelled with hope as he saw the ground spin back behind him.  Red Perris, too, shouting like a mad man as he spurred in, realized that his opportunity was slipping through his fingers.  For now, though far away, he swung his rope in a stiffly horizontal circle about his head.  The time had come.  Straight before him shot the red streak of the stallion; and leaning in his saddle to give greater length to the cast he made the throw.