he dreaded the apparition itself he dreaded more the whipping circle of rope.  For had he not seen the dead thing become alive and snakelike in the skilled hand of Manuel Cordova?  The freezing terror relaxed; the sand crunched away under the drive of his rear hoofs as he flung himself forward—­with firm footing to aid he would have slid from beneath the flying danger, but as it was he heard the live rope whisper in the air above his head.

He landed on stiff legs, checked his forward impetus and flung sidewise.  On solid footing he would have dodged successfully; as it was the noose barely clipped past his ear.

As the rope touched his neck, it seemed to Alcatraz that every wound dealt him by the hand of man was suddenly aching and bleeding again, the skin along his flanks quivered where the spurs of Cordova had driven home time and again, and on shoulders and belly and hips there were burning stripes where the quirt had raised its wale.  Most horrible of all, in his mouth came the taste of iron and his own blood where the Spanish bit had wrenched his jaws apart.  Out of the old days he might have remembered the first and bitterest lesson—­that it is folly to pull against a rope—­but now he saw nothing save the fleeing forms of the seven mares and his own freedom vanishing with them.  In his mid-leap the lariat hummed taut, sank in a burning circle into the flesh at the base of his neck, and he was flung to the ground.  No man’s power could have stopped him so short; the cunning enemy had turned a half-hitch around the top of that deep-rooted rock.

He landed, not inert, but shocked out of hysteria into all his old cunning—­that wily savagery which had kept Cordova in fear, ten-fold more terrible since the free life had clothed him with his full strength.  The very impetus of his fall he used to help him whirl to his feet, and as he rose he knew what he must do.  To struggle against the tools of man was always madness and brought only pain as a result; like a good general he determined to end the battle by getting at the root of the enemy’s fire, and wheeling on his hind legs he charged Red Perris.

The first leap revealed the mystery of the man’s appearance.  Behind this rock, which was barely sufficient shelter for his head, he had excavated a pit sufficient to shelter his crouching body and the sand which he removed for this purpose had been spread evenly over the slope so that no suspicion might be created in the most watchful eye.  He had sprung from his concealment and was now working to loosen the half-hitch from the rock.  As the knot came free Alcatraz was turning and now Perris faced the charge with the rope caught in his hand.  What could he do?  There was only one thing, and the stallion saw the heavy revolver bared and levelled at him, a flickering bit of metal.  He knew well what it meant but there was no hope save to rush on; another stride and he would be on that frail creature, tearing with his teeth and crushing with his hoofs.