His knees buckled now.  He could no longer sunfish.  He could not even buck straight with the bone-breaking energy.  He was nearly done, with a tell-tale wheeze in his lungs, with blood pressure making his eyes start well-nigh from his head, and a bloody froth choking him.  Red Perris also was in the last stage of exhaustion—­one true pitch would have hurled him limp from his seat—­yet, with his body numb from head to toe, he managed to keep his place by using that last and greatest strength of feeble man—­power of will.  Alcatraz, coming at last to a beaten stop, looked about him for help.

There was nothing to aid, nothing save the murmur of the wind in the trees just before him.  Suddenly his ears pricked with new hope and he shut out the weak voice which murmured huskily:  “I’ve got you now.  I’ve got you, Alcatraz.  I’ve all by myself—­no whip,—­no spur—­no leather pulling—­I’ve rode straight up and——­”

Alcatraz lunged out into a rickety gallop.  Only new hope sustained him as he headed straight for the trees.

Even the dazed brain of Perris understood.  With all his force he wrenched at the bit—­it was hopelessly lodged in the teeth of the stallion—­and then he groaned in despair and a moment later swayed forward to avoid a bough brushing close overhead.

There were other branches ahead.  On galloped Alcatraz, heading cunningly beneath the boughs until he was stopped by a shock that dropped him staggering to his knees.  The pommel had struck a branch—­and Red Perris was still in place.

Once more the chestnut started, reeling heavily in his lope.  This time, to avoid the coming peril, the rider slipped far to one side and Alcatraz veered swiftly towards a neighboring tree trunk.  Too late Red Perris saw the danger and strove to drag himself back into the saddle, but his numbed muscles refused to act and Alcatraz felt the burden torn from his back, felt a dangling foot tug at the left stirrup—­then he was free.

So utter was his exhaustion that in checking himself he nearly fell, but he turned to look at the mischief he had worked.

The man lay on his back with his arms flung out cross-wise.  From a gash in his forehead the blood streamed across his face.  His legs were twisted oddly together.  His eyes were closed.  From head to foot the stallion sniffed that limp body, then raised a forehoof to strike; with one blow he could smash the face to a smear of red as he had smashed Manuel Cordova the great day long before.

The hoof fell, was checked, and wondering at himself Alcatraz found that his blow had not struck home.  What was it that restrained him?  It seemed to the conqueror that he felt again the gentle finger-tips which had worked down the muscles of his shoulder and trailed down his neck.  More than that, he heard the smooth murmur of the man’s voice like a kindly ghost beside him.  He dreaded Red Perris still, but hate the fallen rider he could not.  Presently a loud rushing of the wind among the branches above made him turn and in a panic he left the forest at a shambling trot.