He had no power of reason in his poor blind brain to teach him the why and the wherefore.  But he had that overmastering impulse which lives in every gentle-blooded horse—­the great desire to serve.  A mustang would have been incapable of such a thing, but in Alcatraz flowed the pure strain of the thoroughbred, tracing back to the old desert stock where the horse lives in the tent of his master, the most cherished member of the family.  There was in him dim knowledge of events through which he himself had never passed.  By the very lines of his blood there was bred in him a need for human affection and human care, just as there was bred in him the keen heart of the racer.  And now he knew to the full that exquisite delight of service with the very life of a helpless man given into his keeping.

One ear he canted back to the pain-roughened voice which spoke at his ear.  The voice was growing weaker and weaker, just as the grip of the legs was decreasing, and the hands were tangled less firmly in his mane, but now the bright-colored buildings of the ranch appeared through the trees.  They were passing between the deadly rows of barbed wire with far-off mutter of the pursuing horses beating at his ear and telling him that all escape was cut off.  Yet still the man held him to the way through a mingling of trails thick with the scents of man, of man-ridden horses.  The burden on his back now slipped from side to side at every reach of his springy gallop.

They came in sight of the ranch house itself.  The failing voice rose for one instant into a hoarse cry of joy.  Far behind, rose a triumphant echo of shouting.  Yes, the trap was closed, and his only protection from the men riding behind was this half-living creature on his back.

Out from the arched entrance to the patio ran a girl.  She started back against the ’dobe wall of the house and threw up one hand as though a miracle had flashed across her vision.  Alcatraz brought his canter to a trot that shook the loose body on his back, and then he was walking reluctantly forward, for towards the girl the rider was directing him against all his own power of reason.  She was crying out, now, in a shrill voice, and presently through the shadowy arch swung the figure of a big man on crutches, who shouted even as the girl had shouted.

Oliver Jordan, reading through the lines of his foreman’s letter, had returned to find out what was going wrong, and from his daughter’s tale he had learned more than enough.

Trembling at the nearness of these two human beings, but driven on by the faint voice, and the guiding hands, Alcatraz passed shuddering under the very arch of the patio entrance and so found himself once more—­and forever—­surrendered into the power of men!

But the weak figure on his back had relaxed, and was sliding down.  He saw the gate closing the patio swing to.  He saw the girl run with a cry and receive the bleeding body of Red Perris into her arms.  He saw the man on crutches swing towards them, exclaiming “—­without even a bridle!  Marianne, he must have hypnotized that hoss!”