Chapter XVII. Wrangle's Race Run

by Zane Grey

　　The plan eventually decided upon by the lovers was for Venters togo to the village, secure a horse and some kind of a disguise forBess, or at least less striking apparel than her present garb,and to return post-haste to the valley. Meanwhile, she would addto their store of gold. Then they would strike the long andperilous trail to ride out of Utah. In the event of his inabilityto fetch back a horse for her, they intended to make the giantsorrel carry double. The gold, a little food, saddle blankets,and Venters's guns were to compose the light outfit with whichthey would make the start.

　　"I love this beautiful place," said Bess. "It's hard to think ofleaving it."

　　"Hard! Well, I should think so," replied Venters. "Maybe--inyears--" But he did not complete in words his thought that mightbe possible to return after many years of absence and change.

　　Once again Bess bade Venters farewell under the shadow ofBalancing Rock, and this time it was with whispered hope andtenderness and passionate trust. Long after he had left her, alldown through the outlet to the Pass, the clinging clasp of herarms, the sweetness of her lips, and the sense of a new andexquisite birth of character in her remained hauntingly andthrillingly in his mind. The girl who had sadly called herselfnameless and nothing had been marvelously transformed in themoment of his avowal of love. It was something to think over,something to warm his heart, but for the present it hadabsolutely to be forgotten so that all his mind could beaddressed to the trip so fraught with danger.

　　He carried only his rifle, revolver, and a small quantity ofbread and meat, and thus lightly burdened, he made swift progressdown the slope and out into the valley. Darkness was coming on,and he welcomed it. Stars were blinking when he reached his oldhiding-place in the split of canyon wall, and by their aid heslipped through the dense thickets to the grassy enclosure.Wrangle stood in the center of it with his head up, and heappeared black and of gigantic proportions in the dim light.Venters whistled softly, began a slow approach, and then called.The horse snorted and, plunging away with dull, heavy sound ofhoofs, he disappeared in the gloom. "Wilder than ever!" mutteredVenters. He followed the sorrel into the narrowing split betweenthe walls, and presently had to desist because he could not see afoot in advance. As he went back toward the open Wrangle jumpedout of an ebony shadow of cliff and like a thunderbolt shot hugeand black past him down into the starlit glade. Deciding that allattempts to catch Wrangle at night would be useless, Ventersrepaired to the shelving rock where he had hidden saddle andblanket, and there went to sleep.

　　The first peep of day found him stirring, and as soon as it waslight enough to distinguish objects, he took his lasso off hissaddle and went out to rope the sorrel. He espied Wrangle at thelower end of the cove and approached him in a perfectly naturalmanner. When he got near enough, Wrangle evidently recognizedhim, but was too wild to stand. He ran up the glade and on intothe narrow lane between the walls. This favored Venters's speedycapture of the horse, so, coiling his noose ready to throw, hehurried on. Wrangle let Venters get to within a hundred feet andthen he broke. But as he plunged by, rapidly getting into hisstride, Venters made a perfect throw with the rope. He had timeto brace himself for the shock; nevertheless, Wrangle threw himand dragged him several yards before halting.

　　"You wild devil," said Venters, as he slowly pulled Wrangle up."Don't you know me? Come now--old fellow--so--so--"

　　Wrangle yielded to the lasso and then to Venters's strong hand.He was as straggly and wild-looking as a horse left to roam freein the sage. He dropped his long ears and stood readily to besaddled and bridled. But he was exceedingly sensitive, andquivered at every touch and sound. Venters led him to thethicket, and, bending the close saplings to let him squeezethrough, at length reached the open. Sharp survey in eachdirection assured him of the usual lonely nature of the canyon,then he was in the saddle, riding south.

　　Wrangle's long, swinging canter was a wonderful ground-gainer.His stride was almost twice that of an ordinary horse; and hisendurance was equally remarkable. Venters pulled him inoccasionally, and walked him up the stretches of rising groundand along the soft washes. Wrangle had never yet shown anyindication of distress while Venters rode him. Nevertheless,there was now reason to save the horse, therefore Venters did notresort to the hurry that had characterized his former trip. Hecamped at the last water in the Pass. What distance that was toCottonwoods he did not know; he calculated, however, that it wasin the neighborhood of fifty miles.

　　Early in the morning he proceeded on his way, and about themiddle of the forenoon reached the constricted gap that markedthe southerly end of the Pass, and through which led the trail upto the sage-level. He spied out Lassiter's tracks in the dust,but no others, and dismounting, he straightened out Wrangle'sbridle and began to lead him up the trail. The short climb, moresevere on beast than on man, necessitated a rest on the levelabove, and during this he scanned the wide purple reaches ofslope.

　　Wrangle whistled his pleasure at the smell of the sage.Remounting, Venters headed up the white trail with the fragrantwind in his face. He had proceeded for perhaps a couple of mileswhen Wrangle stopped with a suddenness that threw Venters heavilyagainst the pommel.

　　"What's wrong, old boy?" called Venters, looking down for a looseshoe or a snake or a foot lamed by a picked-up stone. Unrewarded,he raised himself from his scrutiny. Wrangle stood stiff headhigh, with his long ears erect. Thus guided, Venters swiftlygazed ahead to make out a dust-clouded, dark group of horsemenriding down the slope. If they had seen him, it apparently madeno difference in their speed or direction.

　　"Wonder who they are!" exclaimed Venters. He was not disposed torun. His cool mood tightened under grip of excitement as hereflected that, whoever the approaching riders were, they couldnot be friends. He slipped out of the saddle and led Wranglebehind the tallest sage-brush. It might serve to conceal themuntil the riders were close enough for him to see who they were;after that he would be indifferent to how soon they discoveredhim.

　　After looking to his rifle and ascertaining that it was inworking order, he watched, and as he watched, slowly the force ofa bitter fierceness, long dormant, gathered ready to flame intolife. If those riders were not rustlers he had forgotten howrustlers looked and rode. On they came, a small group, so compactand dark that he could not tell their number. How unusual thattheir horses did not see Wrangle! But such failure, Ventersdecided, was owing to the speed with which they were traveling.They moved at a swift canter affected more by rustlers than byriders. Venters grew concerned over the possibility that thesehorsemen would actually ride down on him before he had a chanceto tell what to expect. When they were within three hundred yardshe deliberately led Wrangle out into the trail.

　　Then he heard shouts, and the hard scrape of sliding hoofs, andsaw horses rear and plunge back with up-flung heads and flyingmanes. Several little white puffs of smoke appeared sharplyagainst the black background of riders and horses, and shots rangout. Bullets struck far in front of Venters, and whipped up thedust and then hummed low into the sage. The range was great forrevolvers, but whether the shots were meant to kill or merely tocheck advance, they were enough to fire that waiting ferocity inVenters. Slipping his arm through the bridle, so that Wranglecould not get away, Venters lifted his rifle and pulled thetrigger twice.

　　He saw the first horseman lean sideways and fall. He saw anotherlurch in his saddle and heard a cry of pain. Then Wrangle,plunging in fright, lifted Venters and nearly threw him. Hejerked the horse down with a powerful hand and leaped into thesaddle. Wrangle plunged again, dragging his bridle, that Ventershad not had time to throw in place. Bending over with a swiftmovement, he secured it and dropped the loop over the pommel.Then, with grinding teeth, he looked to see what the issue wouldbe.

　　The band had scattered so as not to afford such a broad mark forbullets. The riders faced Venters, some with red-belching guns.He heard a sharper report, and just as Wrangle plunged again hecaught the whim of a leaden missile that would have hit him butfor Wrangle's sudden jump. A swift, hot wave, turning cold,passed over Venters. Deliberately he picked out the one riderwith a carbine, and killed him. Wrangle snorted shrilly andbolted into the sage. Venters let him run a few rods, then withiron arm checked him.

　　Five riders, surely rustlers, were left. One leaped out of thesaddle to secure his fallen comrade's carbine. A shot fromVenters, which missed the man but sent the dust flying over himmade him run back to his horse. Then they separated. The crippledrider went one way; the one frustrated in his attempt to get thecarbine rode another, Venters thought he made out a third rider,carrying a strange-appearing bundle and disappearing in the sage.But in the rapidity of action and vision he could not discernwhat it was. Two riders with three horses swung out to the right.Afraid of the long rifle--a burdensome weapon seldom carried byrustlers or riders--they had been put to rout.

　　Suddenly Venters discovered that one of the two men last notedwas riding Jane Withersteen's horse Bells--the beautiful bayracer she had given to Lassiter. Venters uttered a savage outcry.Then the small, wiry, frog-like shape of the second rider, andthe ease and grace of his seat in the saddle--things sostrikingly incongruous--grew more and more familiar in Venters'ssight.

　　"Jerry Card!" cried Venters.

　　It was indeed Tull's right-hand man. Such a white hot wrathinflamed Venters that he fought himself to see with clearer gaze.

　　"It's Jerry Card!" he exclaimed, instantly. "And he's ridingBlack Star and leading Night!"

　　The long-kindling, stormy fire in Venters's heart burst intoflame. He spurred Wrangle, and as the horse lengthened his strideVenters slipped cartridges into the magazine of his rifle till itwas once again full. Card and his companion were now half a mileor more in advance, riding easily down the slope. Venters markedthe smooth gait, and understood it when Wrangle galloped out ofthe sage into the broad cattle trail, down which Venters had oncetracked Jane Withersteen's red herd. This hard-packed trail, fromyears of use, was as clean and smooth as a road. Venters sawJerry Card look back over his shoulder, the other rider didlikewise. Then the three racers lengthened their stride to thepoint where the swinging canter was ready to break into a gallop.

　　"Wrangle, the race's on," said Venters, grimly. "We'll canterwith them and gallop with them and run with them. We'll let themset the pace."

　　Venters knew he bestrode the strongest, swiftest, most tirelesshorse ever ridden by any rider across the Utah uplands. RecallingJane Withersteen's devoted assurance that Night could run neckand neck with Wrangle, and Black Star could show his heels tohim, Venters wished that Jane were there to see the race torecover her blacks and in the unqualified superiority of thegiant sorrel. Then Venters found himself thankful that she wasabsent, for he meant that race to end in Jerry Card's death. Thefirst flush, the raging of Venters's wrath, passed, to leave himin sullen, almost cold possession of his will. It was a deadlymood, utterly foreign to his nature, engendered, fostered, andreleased by the wild passions of wild men in a wild country. Thestrength in him then--the thing rife in him that was note hate,but something as remorseless--might have been the fiery fruitionof a whole lifetime of vengeful quest. Nothing could have stoppedhim.

　　Venters thought out the race shrewdly. The rider on Bells wouldprobably drop behind and take to the sage. What he did was oflittle moment to Venters. To stop Jerry Card, his evil hiddencareer as well as his present flight, and then to catch theblacks--that was all that concerned Venters. The cattle trailwound for miles and miles down the slope. Venters saw with arider's keen vision ten, fifteen, twenty miles of clear purplesage. There were no on-coming riders or rustlers to aid Card. Hisonly chance to escape lay in abandoning the stolen horses andcreeping away in the sage to hide. In ten miles Wrangle could runBlack Star and Night off their feet, and in fifteen he could killthem outright. So Venters held the sorrel in, letting Card makethe running. It was a long race that would save the blacks.

　　In a few miles of that swinging canter Wrangle had creptappreciably closer to the three horses. Jerry Card turned again,and when he saw how the sorrel had gained, he put Black Star to agallop. Night and Bells, on either side of him, swept into hisstride.

　　Venters loosened the rein on Wrangle and let him break into agallop. The sorrel saw the horses ahead and wanted to run. ButVenters restrained him. And in the gallop he gained more than inthe canter. Bells was fast in that gait, but Black Star and Nighthad been trained to run. Slowly Wrangle closed the gap down to aquarter of a mile, and crept closer and closer.

　　Jerry Card wheeled once more. Venters distinctly saw the redflash of his red face. This time he looked long. Venters laughed.He knew what passed in Card's mind. The rider was trying to makeout what horse it happened to be that thus gained on JaneWithersteen's peerless racers. Wrangle had so long been away fromthe village that not improbably Jerry had forgotten. Besides,whatever Jerry's qualifications for his fame as the greatestrider of the sage, certain it was that his best point was notfar-sightedness. He had not recognized Wrangle. After what musthave been a searching gaze he got his comrade to face about. Thisaction gave Venters amusement. It spoke so surely of the factsthat neither Card nor the rustler actually knew their danger. Yetif they kept to the trail--and the last thing such men would dowould be to leave it--they were both doomed.

　　This comrade of Card's whirled far around in his saddle, and heeven shaded his eyes from the sun. He, too, looked long. Then,all at once, he faced ahead again and, bending lower in thesaddle, began to fling his right arm up and down. That flingingVenters knew to be the lashing of Bells. Jerry also becameactive. And the three racers lengthened out into a run.

　　"Now, Wrangle!" cried Venters. "Run, you big devil! Run!"

　　Venters laid the reins on Wrangle's neck and dropped the loopover the pommel. The sorrel needed no guiding on that smoothtrail. He was surer-footed in a run than at any other fast gait,and his running gave the impression of something devilish. Hemight now have been actuated by Venters's spirit; undoubtedly hissavage running fitted the mood of his rider. Venters bent forwardswinging with the horse, and gripped his rifle. His eye measuredthe distance between him and Jerry Card.

　　In less than two miles of running Bells began to drop behind theblacks, and Wrangle began to overhaul him. Venters anticipatedthat the rustler would soon take to the sage. Yet he did not. Notimprobably he reasoned that the powerful sorrel could more easilyovertake Bells in the heavier going outside of the trail. Soononly a few hundred yards lay between Bells and Wrangle. Turningin his saddle, the rustler began to shoot, and the bullets beatup little whiffs of dust. Venters raised his rifle, ready to takesnap shots, and waited for favorable opportunity when Bells wasout of line with the forward horses. Venters had it in him tokill these men as if they were skunk-bitten coyotes, but also hehad restraint enough to keep from shooting one of Jane's belovedArabians.

　　No great distance was covered, however, before Bells swerved tothe left, out of line with Black Star and Night. Then Venters,aiming high and waiting for the pause between Wrangle's greatstrides, began to take snap shots at the rustler. The fleeingrider presented a broad target for a rifle, but he was movingswiftly forward and bobbing up and down. Moreover, shooting fromWrangle's back was shooting from a thunderbolt. And added to thatwas the danger of a low-placed bullet taking effect on Bells.Yet, despite these considerations, making the shot exceedinglydifficult, Venters's confidence, like his implacability, saw aspeedy and fatal termination of that rustler's race. On the sixthshot the rustler threw up his arms and took a flying tumble offhis horse. He rolled over and over, hunched himself to ahalf-erect position, fell, and then dragged himself into thesage. As Venters went thundering by he peered keenly into thesage, but caught no sign of the man. Bells ran a few hundredyards, slowed up, and had stopped when Wrangle passed him.

　　Again Venters began slipping fresh cartridges into the magazineof his rifle, and his hand was so sure and steady that he did notdrop a single cartridge. With the eye of a rider and the judgmentof a marksman he once more measured the distance between him andJerry Card. Wrangle had gained, bringing him into rifle range.Venters was hard put to it now not to shoot, but thought itbetter to withhold his fire. Jerry, who, in anticipation of arunning fusillade, had huddled himself into a little twisted ballon Black Star's neck, now surmising that this pursuer would makesure of not wounding one of the blacks, rose to his natural seatin the saddle.

　　In his mind perhaps, as certainly as in Venters's, this momentwas the beginning of the real race.

　　Venters leaned forward to put his hand on Wrangle's neck, thenbackward to put it on his flank. Under the shaggy, dusty hairtrembled and vibrated and rippled a wonderful muscular activity.But Wrangle's flesh was still cold. What a cold-blooded brutethought Venters, and felt in him a love for the horse he hadnever given to any other. It would not have been humanly possiblefor any rider, even though clutched by hate or revenge or apassion to save a loved one or fear of his own life, to beastride the sorrel to swing with his swing, to see hismagnificent stride and hear the rapid thunder of his hoofs, toride him in that race and not glory in the ride.

　　So, with his passion to kill still keen and unabated, Venterslived out that ride, and drank a rider's sage-sweet cup ofwildness to the dregs.

　　When Wrangle's long mane, lashing in the wind, stung Venters inthe cheek, the sting added a beat to his flying pulse. He bent adownward glance to try to see Wrangle's actual stride, and sawonly twinkling, darting streaks and the white rush of the trail.He watched the sorrel's savage head, pointed level, his mouthstill closed and dry, but his nostrils distended as if he weresnorting unseen fire. Wrangle was the horse for a race withdeath. Upon each side Venters saw the sage merged into a sailing,colorless wall. In front sloped the lay of ground with its purplebreadth split by the white trail. The wind, blowing with heavy,steady blast into his face, sickened him with enduring, sweetodor, and filled his ears with a hollow, rushing roar.

　　Then for the hundredth time he measured the width of spaceseparating him from Jerry Card. Wrangle had ceased to gain. Theblacks were proving their fleetness. Venters watched Jerry Card,admiring the little rider's horsemanship. He had the incomparableseat of the upland rider, born in the saddle. It struck Ventersthat Card had changed his position, or the position of thehorses. Presently Venters remembered positively that Jerry hadbeen leading Night on the right-hand side of the trail. The racerwas now on the side to the left. No--it was Black Star. But,Venters argued in amaze, Jerry had been mounted on Black Star.Another clearer, keener gaze assured Venters that Black Star wasreally riderless. Night now carried Jerry Card.

　　"He's changed from one to the other!" ejaculated Venters,realizing the astounding feat with unstinted admiration. "Changedat full speed! Jerry Card, that's what you've done unless I'mdrunk on the smell of sage. But I've got to see the trick beforeI believe it."

　　Thenceforth, while Wrangle sped on, Venters glued his eyes to thelittle rider. Jerry Card rode as only he could ride. Of all thedaring horsemen of the uplands, Jerry was the one rider fitted tobring out the greatness of the blacks in that long race. He hadthem on a dead run, but not yet at the last strained and killingpace. From time to time he glanced backward, as a wise general inretreat calculating his chances and the power and speed ofpursuers, and the moment for the last desperate burst. No doubt,Card, with his life at stake, gloried in that race, perhaps morewildly than Venters. For he had been born to the sage and thesaddle and the wild. He was more than half horse. Not until thelast call--the sudden up-flashing instinct ofself-preservation--would he lose his skill and judgment and nerveand the spirit of that race. Venters seemed to read Jerry's mind.That little crime-stained rider was actually thinking of hishorses, husbanding their speed, handling them with knowledge ofyears, glorying in their beautiful, swift, racing stride, andwanting them to win the race when his own life hung suspended inquivering balance. Again Jerry whirled in his saddle and the sunflashed red on his face. Turning, he drew Black Star closer andcloser toward Night, till they ran side by side, as one horse.Then Card raised himself in the saddle, slipped out of thestirrups, and, somehow twisting himself, leaped upon Black Star.He did not even lose the swing of the horse. Like a leech he wasthere in the other saddle, and as the horses separated, his rightfoot, that had been apparently doubled under him, shot down tocatch the stirrup. The grace and dexterity and daring of thatrider's act won something more than admiration from Venters.

　　For the distance of a mile Jerry rode Black Star and then changedback to Night. But all Jerry's skill and the running of theblacks could avail little more against the sorrel.

　　Venters peered far ahead, studying the lay of the land.Straightaway for five miles the trail stretched, and then itdisappeared in hummocky ground. To the right, some few rods,Venters saw a break in the sage, and this was the rim ofDeception Pass. Across the dark cleft gleamed the red of theopposite wall. Venters imagined that the trail went down into thePass somewhere north of those ridges. And he realized that hemust and would overtake Jerry Card in this straight course offive miles.

　　Cruelly he struck his spurs into Wrangle's flanks. A light touchof spur was sufficient to make Wrangle plunge. And now, with aringing, wild snort, he seemed to double up in muscularconvulsions and to shoot forward with an impetus that almostunseated Venters. The sage blurred by, the trail flashed by, andthe wind robbed him of breath and hearing. Jerry Card turned oncemore. And the way he shifted to Black Star showed he had to makehis last desperate running. Venters aimed to the side of thetrail and sent a bullet puffing the dust beyond Jerry. Ventershoped to frighten the rider and get him to take to the sage. ButJerry returned the shot, and his ball struck dangerously close inthe dust at Wrangle's flying feet. Venters held his fire then,while the rider emptied his revolver. For a mile, with Black Starleaving Night behind and doing his utmost, Wrangle did not gain;for another mile he gained little, if at all. In the third hecaught up with the now galloping Night and began to gain rapidlyon the other black.

　　Only a hundred yards now stretched between Black Star andWrangle. The giant sorrel thundered on--and on--and on. In everyyard he gained a foot. He was whistling through his nostrils,wringing wet, flying lather, and as hot as fire. Savage as ever,strong as ever, fast as ever, but each tremendous stride jarredVenters out of the saddle! Wrangle's power and spirit andmomentum had begun to run him off his legs. Wrangle's great racewas nearly won--and run. Venters seemed to see the expanse beforehim as a vast, sheeted, purple plain sliding under him. BlackStar moved in it as a blur. The rider, Jerry Card, appeared amere dot bobbing dimly. Wrangle thundered on--on--on! Ventersfelt the increase in quivering, straining shock after every leap.Flecks of foam flew into Venters's eyes, burning him, making himsee all the sage as red. But in that red haze he saw, or seemedto see, Black Star suddenly riderless and with broken gait.Wrangle thundered on to change his pace with a violent break.Then Venters pulled him hard. From run to gallop, gallop tocanter, canter to trot, trot to walk, and walk to stop, the greatsorrel ended his race.

　　Venters looked back. Black Star stood riderless in the trail.Jerry Card had taken to the sage. Far up the white trail Nightcame trotting faithfully down. Venters leaped off, still halfblind, reeling dizzily. In a moment he had recovered sufficientlyto have a care for Wrangle. Rapidly he took off the saddle andbridle. The sorrel was reeking, heaving, whistling, shaking. Buthe had still the strength to stand, and for him Venters had nofears.

　　As Venters ran back to Black Star he saw the horse stagger onshaking legs into the sage and go down in a heap. Upon reachinghim Venters removed the saddle and bridle. Black Star had beenkilled on his legs, Venters thought. He had no hope for thestricken horse. Black Star lay flat, covered with bloody froth,mouth wide, tongue hanging, eyes glaring, and all his beautifulbody in convulsions.

　　Unable to stay there to see Jane's favorite racer die, Ventershurried up the trail to meet the other black. On the way he kepta sharp lookout for Jerry Card. Venters imagined the rider wouldkeep well out of range of the rifle, but, as he would be lost onthe sage without a horse, not improbably he would linger in thevicinity on the chance of getting back one of the blacks. Nightsoon came trotting up, hot and wet and run out. Venters led himdown near the others, and unsaddling him, let him loose to rest.Night wearily lay down in the dust and rolled, proving himselfnot yet spent.

　　Then Venters sat down to rest and think. Whatever the risk, hewas compelled to stay where he was, or comparatively near, forthe night. The horses must rest and drink. He must find water. Hewas now seventy miles from Cottonwoods, and, he believed, closeto the canyon where the cattle trail must surely turn off and godown into the Pass. After a while he rose to survey the valley.

　　He was very near to the ragged edge of a deep canyon into whichthe trail turned. The ground lay in uneven ridges divided bywashes, and these sloped into the canyon. Following the canyonline, he saw where its rim was broken by other intersectingcanyons, and farther down red walls and yellow cliffs leadingtoward a deep blue cleft that he made sure was Deception Pass.Walking out a few rods to a promontory, he found where the trailwent down. The descent was gradual, along a stone-walled trail,and Venters felt sure that this was the place where Oldring drovecattle into the Pass. There was, however, no indication at allthat he ever had driven cattle out at this point. Oldring hadmany holes to his burrow.

　　In searching round in the little hollows Venters, much to hisrelief, found water. He composed himself to rest and eat somebread and meat, while he waited for a sufficient time to elapseso that he could safely give the horses a drink. He judged thehour to be somewhere around noon. Wrangle lay down to rest andNight followed suit. So long as they were down Venters intendedto make no move. The longer they rested the better, and the saferit would be to give them water. By and by he forced himself to goover to where Black Star lay, expecting to find him dead. Insteadhe found the racer partially if not wholly recovered. There wasrecognition, even fire, in his big black eyes. Venters wasoverjoyed. He sat by the black for a long time. Black Starpresently labored to his feet with a heave and a groan, shookhimself, and snorted for water. Venters repaired to the littlepool he had found, filled his sombrero, and gave the racer adrink. Black Star gulped it at one draught, as if it were but adrop, and pushed his nose into the hat and snorted for more.Venters now led Night down to drink, and after a further timeBlack Star also. Then the blacks began to graze.

　　The sorrel had wandered off down the sage between the trail andthe canyon. Once or twice he disappeared in little swales.Finally Venters concluded Wrangle had grazed far enough, and,taking his lasso, he went to fetch him back. In crossing from oneridge to another he saw where the horse had made muddy a pool ofwater. It occurred to Venters then that Wrangle had drunk hisfill, and did not seem the worse for it, and might be anythingbut easy to catch. And, true enough, he could not come withinroping reach of the sorrel. He tried for an hour, and gave up indisgust. Wrangle did not seem so wild as simply perverse. In aquandary Venters returned to the other horses, hoping much, yetdoubting more, that when Wrangle had grazed to suit himself hemight be caught.

　　As the afternoon wore away Venters's concern diminished, yet hekept close watch on the blacks and the trail and the sage. Therewas no telling of what Jerry Card might be capable. Venterssullenly acquiesced to the idea that the rider had been too quickand too shrewd for him. Strangely and doggedly, however, Ventersclung to his foreboding of Card's downfall.

　　The wind died away; the red sun topped the far distant westernrise of slope; and the long, creeping purple shadows lengthened.The rims of the canyons gleamed crimson and the deep cleftsappeared to belch forth blue smoke. Silence enfolded the scene.

　　It was broken by a horrid, long-drawn scream of a horse and thethudding of heavy hoofs. Venters sprang erect and wheeled south.Along the canyon rim, near the edge, came Wrangle, once more inthundering flight.

　　Venters gasped in amazement. Had the wild sorrel gone mad? Hishead was high and twisted, in a most singular position for arunning horse. Suddenly Venters descried a frog-like shapeclinging to Wrangle's neck. Jerry Card! Somehow he had straddledWrangle and now stuck like a huge burr. But it was his strangeposition and the sorrel's wild scream that shook Venters'snerves. Wrangle was pounding toward the turn where the trail wentdown. He plunged onward like a blind horse. More than one of hisleaps took him to the very edge of the precipice.

　　Jerry Card was bent forward with his teeth fast in the front ofWrangle's nose! Venters saw it, and there flashed over him amemory of this trick of a few desperate riders. He even thoughtof one rider who had worn off his teeth in this terrible hold tobreak or control desperate horses. Wrangle had indeed gone mad.The marvel was what guided him. Was it the half-brute, the morethan half-horse instinct of Jerry Card? Whatever the mystery, itwas true. And in a few more rods Jerry would have the sorrelturning into the trail leading down into the canyon.

　　"No--Jerry!" whispered Venters, stepping forward and throwing upthe rifle. He tried to catch the little humped, frog-like shapeover the sights. It was moving too fast; it was too small. YetVenters shot once ...twice...the third time...four times...five!all wasted shots and precious seconds!

　　With a deep-muttered curse Venters caught Wrangle through thesights and pulled the trigger. Plainly he heard the bullet thud.Wrangle uttered a horrible strangling sound. In swift deathaction he whirled, and with one last splendid leap he cleared thecanyon rim. And he whirled downward with the little frog-likeshape clinging to his neck!

　　There was a pause which seemed never ending, a shock, and aninstant s silence.

　　Then up rolled a heavy crash, a long roar of sliding rocks dyingaway in distant echo, then silence unbroken.

　　Wrangle's race was run.