gave way to the little fellow and warned the yearling back with a savage baring of his teeth and a shake of his head.  The foal, with head cocked upon one side, regarded its protector with impish curiosity and was in the act of nibbling at the flowing mane of the stallion when Alcatraz heard a sharp humming as of a wasp; then the sound of a blow, and the foal leaped straight into the air with head flung back.  Before it hit water a report as of a hammer falling on anvil burst across the level pond, and then the colt struck heavily on its side, dead.

That bullet had been aimed for the tall leader and only the lifting of the foal’s head had saved Alcatraz.  He recognized the report of a rifle and whirled from the water-edge, signalling his company with a short neigh of fear; the arch enemy was upon them!  A volley poured in.  Alcatraz, as he gained the shore, saw an old stallion double up with a scream of pain and no sound is so terrible as the shriek of a tortured horse.  No sound is so terrible even to horses.  It threw the leader into an hysteria of panic.  Others of the herd were falling or staggering in the lake; the remnant rushed up the slope and over the sheltering crest of the hill beyond.

Every nerve in the body of Alcatraz urged him to leap away with arrowy speed, passing even the grey mare—­she who now shot off across the hills far in the van—­but behind him raced weaker and slower horses, the older stallions and the mares with their foals.  Instinct proved greater than fear.  He swept around the rear of his diminished company to round up the laggards, but they were already laboring to the full of their power as five horsemen streamed across the crest with their rifles carried at the ready.  They were a hardy crew, these cowpunchers of the Jordan ranch, but to the sternest of them this was ugly work.  To draw a bead on a horse was like gathering the life of a man into the sight of the rifle, yet they knew that a band of wildrunning mustangs is a perpetual menace.  Already the black leader had recruited his herd with more than one stray from the Jordan outfit; and it was for the black, first of all, that they looked.  There was no sign of him, and in his place ranged a picture horse—­a beautiful red—­chestnut with a gallop that made one’s head swim.  Lew Hervey, who had kept his men in cunning ambush near the lake, had chosen the new leader for a target but shot the colt instead.  And it was Lew Hervey, again, who swung over the crest of the hill and got the next chance at Alcatraz.

The foreman of the Jordan ranch pitched his rifle to his shoulder just as the leader, sweeping back to round up the rearmost of his company, presented a broadside target.  It was a sure hit.  In the certainty of his skill Lew Hervey allowed his hand to swing and followed for a strike or two the rhythm of that racing body.  The sunshine of the late afternoon flashed on the flanks and on the frightened eyes of the stallion; mane and tail fluttered straight