out with his speed; and then he fired, and jerked up his gun to await the crashing fall of the horse.  But Alcatraz did not drop.  That moment of lingering on the part of the foreman saved him, for through the sights of his rifle Hervey had seen such grace and beauty in horseflesh that his nerve was unsteadied.  Alcatraz knew the stinging hum of a bullet past his head; and the foreman knew a miracle.  He could not believe his failure.

“Leave the chestnut to me!” he shouted as his men drove their ponies over the hill, and pulling his own horse to a stand he jerked the rifle butt hard against his shoulder and fired again; the only result was a flirt of the tail of the chestnut as he darted about a hillside and disappeared.  Hervey made no attempt to follow but sat his saddle agape and staring, thinking ghostly thoughts.

This was the beginning of the legend that Alcatraz bore a charmed life.  For the mountains were rich with Indian folklore which had drifted far from its source and had come by hook and crook into the lives of the miners and cowpunchers.  Into such a background many a wild tale fitted and the tale of Alcatraz was to be one of the wildest.

At any rate, the stallion owed his life on this day to the superstition of Lew Hervey which kept him anchored on his horse until the target was gone.  A dozen times his men could have dropped the chestnut who persisted with a frantic courage in running behind the rearmost of his companions, urging them to greater efforts, but since Hervey had selected this as his own prize his men dared not shoot.

It was a strange and beautiful thing to see that king of horses—­sweep back around the slowest of his mustangs, shake his head at the barking guns, and then circle forward again as though he would show the laggard what running should be.  The cowpunchers could have shot him as he veered back; they could have salted him with lead as he flashed broadside, but the orders of their chief restrained them.  Lew Hervey’s lightest word 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!”