Red Perris closed his eyes and his head fell, but when he looked again the tree was far down stream and the stallion still swam in the central current, but now near, very near.  Only the slender outer branches could have struck him, and these with barely sufficient force to drive him under.

Perris strode still further into the wild water until it foamed about his waist, and stretching out his arms he called to the stallion.  Had he possessed ten times the power of voice he could not have made himself heard above the rioting of the Little Smoky but his gesture could be seen, and even a dumb beast could understand it.  The chestnut, at least, comprehended for to the joy of Perris he now saw those gallant ears come forward again, and turning as well as he could, Alcatraz swam stoutly for the shore.  In the hour of need, the Great Enemy had become his last hope.

But his progress towards the sloping bank was small.  For every inch he fought to the bank the current carried him a foot down stream, yet those inches gained in the lateral direction were every one priceless.  Finally Perris swung the lariat and shot it through the air.  Fair and true the circle struck above the head of the stallion and the hunter shouted with hysterical triumph; a moment later he groaned as the current whirled the rope over the head of Alcatraz and down stream.

Yet he fought the hopeless fight.  Staggering in the currents, beaten from his footing time and again, Perris stumbled down stream gathering his rope for a new cast as he went.  Neither had the chestnut abandoned the struggle.  His last efforts had swerved him about and now he headed up stream with the water foaming about his red, distended nostrils; but still through the whipping spray his great eyes were fixed on Perris.  As for the man, there was a prayer in the voice with which he shouted:  “Alcatraz!” and hurled the rope again.

Heavy with the water it had soaked up the noose splashed in a rough circle around the head of the swimmer and then cut down into the water.  Hand over hand he drew in the slack, felt resistance, then a jar that toppled him from his foothold.  The noose had indeed caught around the neck of the stallion, but the success threatened to be his ruin.  Toppled head over heels in the rush of the Little Smoky, still his left hand gripped the rope and as he came gasping to the surface his feet struck and lodged strongly against the surface of a great boulder.  His one stroke of luck!

He had no time to give thanks.  The next moment the full weight of the torrent on Alcatraz whipped the lariat quivering out of the water.  The horse was struggling in the very center of the strongest current and the tug on the arms of Perris made his shoulder sockets ache.  He endured that pain, praying that his hands would not slip on the wet rope.  Then, little by little, he increased his pull until all the strength of leg muscles, back, and arms was brought to bear.  It seemed that there was no