The spot selected by the ranchman for their night’s bivouac was about a quarter of a mile away and in the opposite direction from the cliffs.

Yelling like young Indians, the boys urged their jaded ponies to greater efforts.

Tom and Horace, being lighter than the others, had not tried their mounts so much, and rapidly they drew ahead.

“We simply must beat them,” called Bill to Larry.  “If they get in first, they’ll make us haul all the water and wash dishes—­at least Horace will, if he wins.”

Leaning over their ponies’ necks and rising in the saddles to lighten their weight as much as possible, the two elder boys set out to overtake their brothers.

With spur and lariat end they belabored their mounts and gamely the horses responded.

Leap by leap they cut down the lead, were soon abreast of the others and then forged ahead, shouting in triumph as they opened clear ground between them.

Only about a hundred yards were the leaders from the tree.

Feeling his pony tiring under him, despite his urging, Horace gasped at Tom: 

“Hit Blackhawk with the end of your lasso and then hang on for dear life!”

Instantly Tom obeyed.

As the big black felt the blow he uttered a snort of rage, jerked forward his head and seemed to fly over the ground.

Like a flash he caught Bill and Larry.  Frantically they strove to keep up with him, but in a few bounds he had passed them.

“Tom wins!” yelled Horace with glee.

But his delight at the success of his ruse was shortlived.

Blackhawk was not accustomed to being beaten and, though ordinarily he had a good temper, when he was angry he could be very mean.  Accordingly, as though reasoning to himself that he had done his share in carrying his rider so many miles, when he felt the sharp cut of the lariat he resented it.  And his resentment took the form of a vicious lunge forward of his head, which enabled him to get the bits in his teeth, with which advantage no one could control him.

Despite his greater weight, the ranchman had been close up with the boys and had noted Blackhawk’s action.

Realizing that it would be hopeless to try to overtake the runaway, and fearing that some injury might befall Tom, Mr. Wilder shouted: 

“Rope the black, Bill!  He’s got the bit!”

Loosening his lariat as quickly as possible, the elder of the Wilder boys began to whirl it round his head.

“Throw it! throw it!” roared the ranchman, “Can’t you see you’re losing ground every second?”

Never before had Bill been called on for so important a cast of his lasso, and for a moment his hand trembled.

“Steady!  Let her go now!” counseled his father.

At the word Bill put forth all his strength and the rope shot from his hand, the noose opening perfectly as it sped through the air.