And then a miracle happened.  The revolver was flung aside, a gleaming arc and a splash of sand where it struck; Red Perris preferred to risk his life rather than end the battle before it was well begun with a bullet.  He crouched over the rope as though he had braced himself to meet the shock of the charging stallion.  But that was not his purpose.  As the stallion rushed on him he darted to one side and the fore hoof with which Alcatraz struck merely slashed his shirt down the back.

A feint had saved him, but Alcatraz was no bull to charge blindly twice.  He checked himself so abruptly that he knocked up a shower of sand, and he turned savagely out of that dust-cloud to end the struggle.  Yet this small, mad creature stood his ground, showed no inclination to flee.  With the rope he was doing strange things, making it spin in swift spirals, close to the ground.  Let him do what he would, his days were ended.  Alcatraz bared his teeth, laid back his ears, and lunged again.  Another miracle!  As his forefeet struck the ground in the midst of one of those wide circles of rope, the red-headed man lunged back, the circle jumped like a living thing and coiled itself around both forefeet, between fetlock and hoof.  When he attempted the next leap his front legs crumbled beneath him.  At the very feet of Red Perris he plunged into the sand.

Once more he whirled to regain his lost footing, but as he turned on his back the rope twisted and whispered above him; the off hind leg was noosed, and then the near one—­Alcatraz lay on his side straining and snorting but utterly helpless.

Of a sudden he ceased all struggle.  About neck and all four hoofs was the burning grip of the rope, so bitterly familiar, and man had once again enslaved him.  Alcatraz relaxed.  Presently there would come a swift volley of curses, then the whir and cut of the whip—­no, for a great occasion such as this the man would choose a large and durable club and beat him across the ribs.  Why not?  Even as he had served Cordova this man of the flaming hair would now serve him.  He was very like Cordova in one thing.  He did not hurry, but first picked up his revolver and replaced it in its holster, having blown the sand from the mechanism as well as he could.  Then he put on his fallen hat and stood back with his hands dropped on his hips and eyed the captive.  For the first time he spoke, and Alcatraz shuddered at the sound of a voice well-nigh as smooth as that of Cordova, with the same well-known ring of fierce exultation.

“God A’mighty, God A’mighty!  They can’t be no hoss like this!  Jim, you’re dreaming.  Rub your fool eyes and wake up!”