Wrangle's Race Run





The plan eventually decided upon by the lovers was for Venters to



go to the village, secure a horse and some kind of a disguise for



Bess, or at least less striking apparel than her present garb,



and to return post-haste to the valley. Meanwhile, she would add



to their store of gold. Then they would strike the long and



perilous trail to ride out of Utah. In the event of his inability



to fetch back a horse for her, they intended to make the giant



sorrel carry double. The gold, a little food, saddle blankets,



and Venters's guns were to compose the light outfit with which



they would make the start.







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



leaving it."







"Hard! Well, I should think so," replied Venters. "Maybe--in



years--" But he did not complete in words his thought that might



be possible to return after many years of absence and change.







Once again Bess bade Venters farewell under the shadow of



Balancing Rock, and this time it was with whispered hope and



tenderness and passionate trust. Long after he had left her, all



down through the outlet to the Pass, the clinging clasp of her



arms, the sweetness of her lips, and the sense of a new and



exquisite birth of character in her remained hauntingly and



thrillingly in his mind. The girl who had sadly called herself



nameless and nothing had been marvelously transformed in the



moment of his avowal of love. It was something to think over,



something to warm his heart, but for the present it had



absolutely to be forgotten so that all his mind could be



addressed to the trip so fraught with danger.







He carried only his rifle, revolver, and a small quantity of



bread and meat, and thus lightly burdened, he made swift progress



down the slope and out into the valley. Darkness was coming on,



and he welcomed it. Stars were blinking when he reached his old



hiding-place in the split of canyon wall, and by their aid he



slipped through the dense thickets to the grassy enclosure.



Wrangle stood in the center of it with his head up, and he



appeared 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 of



hoofs, he disappeared in the gloom. "Wilder than ever!" muttered



Venters. He followed the sorrel into the narrowing split between



the walls, and presently had to desist because he could not see a



foot in advance. As he went back toward the open Wrangle jumped



out of an ebony shadow of cliff and like a thunderbolt shot huge



and black past him down into the starlit glade. Deciding that all



attempts to catch Wrangle at night would be useless, Venters



repaired to the shelving rock where he had hidden saddle and



blanket, and there went to sleep.







The first peep of day found him stirring, and as soon as it was



light enough to distinguish objects, he took his lasso off his



saddle and went out to rope the sorrel. He espied Wrangle at the



lower end of the cove and approached him in a perfectly natural



manner. When he got near enough, Wrangle evidently recognized



him, but was too wild to stand. He ran up the glade and on into



the narrow lane between the walls. This favored Venters's speedy



capture of the horse, so, coiling his noose ready to throw, he



hurried on. Wrangle let Venters get to within a hundred feet and



then he broke. But as he plunged by, rapidly getting into his



stride, Venters made a perfect throw with the rope. He had time



to brace himself for the shock; nevertheless, Wrangle threw him



and 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 free



in the sage. He dropped his long ears and stood readily to be



saddled and bridled. But he was exceedingly sensitive, and



quivered at every touch and sound. Venters led him to the



thicket, and, bending the close saplings to let him squeeze



through, at length reached the open. Sharp survey in each



direction 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 his



endurance was equally remarkable. Venters pulled him in



occasionally, and walked him up the stretches of rising ground



and along the soft washes. Wrangle had never yet shown any



indication of distress while Venters rode him. Nevertheless,



there was now reason to save the horse, therefore Venters did not



resort to the hurry that had characterized his former trip. He



camped at the last water in the Pass. What distance that was to



Cottonwoods he did not know; he calculated, however, that it was



in the neighborhood of fifty miles.







Early in the morning he proceeded on his way, and about the



middle of the forenoon reached the constricted gap that marked



the southerly end of the Pass, and through which led the trail up



to the sage-level. He spied out Lassiter's tracks in the dust,



but no others, and dismounting, he straightened out Wrangle's



bridle and began to lead him up the trail. The short climb, more



severe on beast than on man, necessitated a rest on the level



above, and during this he scanned the wide purple reaches of



slope.







Wrangle whistled his pleasure at the smell of the sage.



Remounting, Venters headed up the white trail with the fragrant



wind in his face. He had proceeded for perhaps a couple of miles



when Wrangle stopped with a suddenness that threw Venters heavily



against the pommel.







"What's wrong, old boy?" called Venters, looking down for a loose



shoe or a snake or a foot lamed by a picked-up stone. Unrewarded,



he raised himself from his scrutiny. Wrangle stood stiff head



high, with his long ears erect. Thus guided, Venters swiftly



gazed ahead to make out a dust-clouded, dark group of horsemen



riding down the slope. If they had seen him, it apparently made



no difference in their speed or direction.







"Wonder who they are!" exclaimed Venters. He was not disposed to



run. His cool mood tightened under grip of excitement as he



reflected that, whoever the approaching riders were, they could



not be friends. He slipped out of the saddle and led Wrangle



behind the tallest sage-brush. It might serve to conceal them



until the riders were close enough for him to see who they were;



after that he would be indifferent to how soon they discovered



him.







After looking to his rifle and ascertaining that it was in



working order, he watched, and as he watched, slowly the force of



a bitter fierceness, long dormant, gathered ready to flame into



life. If those riders were not rustlers he had forgotten how



rustlers looked and rode. On they came, a small group, so compact



and dark that he could not tell their number. How unusual that



their horses did not see Wrangle! But such failure, Venters



decided, was owing to the speed with which they were traveling.



They moved at a swift canter affected more by rustlers than by



riders. Venters grew concerned over the possibility that these



horsemen would actually ride down on him before he had a chance



to tell what to expect. When they were within three hundred yards



he deliberately led Wrangle out into the trail.







Then he heard shouts, and the hard scrape of sliding hoofs, and



saw horses rear and plunge back with up-flung heads and flying



manes. Several little white puffs of smoke appeared sharply



against the black background of riders and horses, and shots rang



out. Bullets struck far in front of Venters, and whipped up the



dust and then hummed low into the sage. The range was great for



revolvers, but whether the shots were meant to kill or merely to



check advance, they were enough to fire that waiting ferocity in



Venters. Slipping his arm through the bridle, so that Wrangle



could not get away, Venters lifted his rifle and pulled the



trigger twice.







He saw the first horseman lean sideways and fall. He saw another



lurch in his saddle and heard a cry of pain. Then Wrangle,



plunging in fright, lifted Venters and nearly threw him. He



jerked the horse down with a powerful hand and leaped into the



saddle. Wrangle plunged again, dragging his bridle, that Venters



had not had time to throw in place. Bending over with a swift



movement, he secured it and dropped the loop over the pommel.



Then, with grinding teeth, he looked to see what the issue would



be.







The band had scattered so as not to afford such a broad mark for



bullets. The riders faced Venters, some with red-belching guns.



He heard a sharper report, and just as Wrangle plunged again he



caught the whim of a leaden missile that would have hit him but



for Wrangle's sudden jump. A swift, hot wave, turning cold,



passed over Venters. Deliberately he picked out the one rider



with a carbine, and killed him. Wrangle snorted shrilly and



bolted into the sage. Venters let him run a few rods, then with



iron arm checked him.







Five riders, surely rustlers, were left. One leaped out of the



saddle to secure his fallen comrade's carbine. A shot from



Venters, which missed the man but sent the dust flying over him



made him run back to his horse. Then they separated. The crippled



rider went one way; the one frustrated in his attempt to get the



carbine 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 discern



what it was. Two riders with three horses swung out to the right.



Afraid of the long rifle--a burdensome weapon seldom carried by



rustlers or riders--they had been put to rout.







Suddenly Venters discovered that one of the two men last noted



was riding Jane Withersteen's horse Bells--the beautiful bay



racer she had given to Lassiter. Venters uttered a savage outcry.



Then the small, wiry, frog-like shape of the second rider, and



the ease and grace of his seat in the saddle--things so



strikingly incongruous--grew more and more familiar in Venters's



sight.







"Jerry Card!" cried Venters.







It was indeed Tull's right-hand man. Such a white hot wrath



inflamed Venters that he fought himself to see with clearer gaze.







"It's Jerry Card!" he exclaimed, instantly. "And he's riding



Black Star and leading Night!"







The long-kindling, stormy fire in Venters's heart burst into



flame. He spurred Wrangle, and as the horse lengthened his stride



Venters slipped cartridges into the magazine of his rifle till it



was once again full. Card and his companion were now half a mile



or more in advance, riding easily down the slope. Venters marked



the smooth gait, and understood it when Wrangle galloped out of



the sage into the broad cattle trail, down which Venters had once



tracked Jane Withersteen's red herd. This hard-packed trail, from



years of use, was as clean and smooth as a road. Venters saw



Jerry Card look back over his shoulder, the other rider did



likewise. Then the three racers lengthened their stride to the



point where the swinging canter was ready to break into a gallop.







"Wrangle, the race's on," said Venters, grimly. "We'll canter



with them and gallop with them and run with them. We'll let them



set the pace."







Venters knew he bestrode the strongest, swiftest, most tireless



horse ever ridden by any rider across the Utah uplands. Recalling



Jane Withersteen's devoted assurance that Night could run neck



and neck with Wrangle, and Black Star could show his heels to



him, Venters wished that Jane were there to see the race to



recover her blacks and in the unqualified superiority of the



giant sorrel. Then Venters found himself thankful that she was



absent, for he meant that race to end in Jerry Card's death. The



first flush, the raging of Venters's wrath, passed, to leave him



in sullen, almost cold possession of his will. It was a deadly



mood, utterly foreign to his nature, engendered, fostered, and



released by the wild passions of wild men in a wild country. The



strength in him then--the thing rife in him that was note hate,



but something as remorseless--might have been the fiery fruition



of a whole lifetime of vengeful quest. Nothing could have stopped



him.







Venters thought out the race shrewdly. The rider on Bells would



probably drop behind and take to the sage. What he did was of



little moment to Venters. To stop Jerry Card, his evil hidden



career as well as his present flight, and then to catch the



blacks--that was all that concerned Venters. The cattle trail



wound for miles and miles down the slope. Venters saw with a



rider's keen vision ten, fifteen, twenty miles of clear purple



sage. There were no on-coming riders or rustlers to aid Card. His



only chance to escape lay in abandoning the stolen horses and



creeping away in the sage to hide. In ten miles Wrangle could run



Black Star and Night off their feet, and in fifteen he could kill



them outright. So Venters held the sorrel in, letting Card make



the running. It was a long race that would save the blacks.







In a few miles of that swinging canter Wrangle had crept



appreciably closer to the three horses. Jerry Card turned again,



and when he saw how the sorrel had gained, he put Black Star to a



gallop. Night and Bells, on either side of him, swept into his



stride.







Venters loosened the rein on Wrangle and let him break into a



gallop. The sorrel saw the horses ahead and wanted to run. But



Venters restrained him. And in the gallop he gained more than in



the canter. Bells was fast in that gait, but Black Star and Night



had been trained to run. Slowly Wrangle closed the gap down to a



quarter of a mile, and crept closer and closer.







Jerry Card wheeled once more. Venters distinctly saw the red



flash of his red face. This time he looked long. Venters laughed.



He knew what passed in Card's mind. The rider was trying to make



out what horse it happened to be that thus gained on Jane



Withersteen's peerless racers. Wrangle had so long been away from



the village that not improbably Jerry had forgotten. Besides,



whatever Jerry's qualifications for his fame as the greatest



rider of the sage, certain it was that his best point was not



far-sightedness. He had not recognized Wrangle. After what must



have been a searching gaze he got his comrade to face about. This



action gave Venters amusement. It spoke so surely of the facts



that neither Card nor the rustler actually knew their danger. Yet



if they kept to the trail--and the last thing such men would do



would be to leave it--they were both doomed.







This comrade of Card's whirled far around in his saddle, and he



even shaded his eyes from the sun. He, too, looked long. Then,



all at once, he faced ahead again and, bending lower in the



saddle, began to fling his right arm up and down. That flinging



Venters knew to be the lashing of Bells. Jerry also became



active. 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 loop



over the pommel. The sorrel needed no guiding on that smooth



trail. He was surer-footed in a run than at any other fast gait,



and his running gave the impression of something devilish. He



might now have been actuated by Venters's spirit; undoubtedly his



savage running fitted the mood of his rider. Venters bent forward



swinging with the horse, and gripped his rifle. His eye measured



the distance between him and Jerry Card.







In less than two miles of running Bells began to drop behind the



blacks, and Wrangle began to overhaul him. Venters anticipated



that the rustler would soon take to the sage. Yet he did not. Not



improbably he reasoned that the powerful sorrel could more easily



overtake Bells in the heavier going outside of the trail. Soon



only a few hundred yards lay between Bells and Wrangle. Turning



in his saddle, the rustler began to shoot, and the bullets beat



up little whiffs of dust. Venters raised his rifle, ready to take



snap shots, and waited for favorable opportunity when Bells was



out of line with the forward horses. Venters had it in him to



kill these men as if they were skunk-bitten coyotes, but also he



had restraint enough to keep from shooting one of Jane's beloved



Arabians.







No great distance was covered, however, before Bells swerved to



the left, out of line with Black Star and Night. Then Venters,



aiming high and waiting for the pause between Wrangle's great



strides, began to take snap shots at the rustler. The fleeing



rider presented a broad target for a rifle, but he was moving



swiftly forward and bobbing up and down. Moreover, shooting from



Wrangle's back was shooting from a thunderbolt. And added to that



was the danger of a low-placed bullet taking effect on Bells.



Yet, despite these considerations, making the shot exceedingly



difficult, Venters's confidence, like his implacability, saw a



speedy and fatal termination of that rustler's race. On the sixth



shot the rustler threw up his arms and took a flying tumble off



his horse. He rolled over and over, hunched himself to a



half-erect position, fell, and then dragged himself into the



sage. As Venters went thundering by he peered keenly into the



sage, but caught no sign of the man. Bells ran a few hundred



yards, slowed up, and had stopped when Wrangle passed him.







Again Venters began slipping fresh cartridges into the magazine



of his rifle, and his hand was so sure and steady that he did not



drop a single cartridge. With the eye of a rider and the judgment



of a marksman he once more measured the distance between him and



Jerry Card. Wrangle had gained, bringing him into rifle range.



Venters was hard put to it now not to shoot, but thought it



better to withhold his fire. Jerry, who, in anticipation of a



running fusillade, had huddled himself into a little twisted ball



on Black Star's neck, now surmising that this pursuer would make



sure of not wounding one of the blacks, rose to his natural seat



in the saddle.







In his mind perhaps, as certainly as in Venters's, this moment



was the beginning of the real race.







Venters leaned forward to put his hand on Wrangle's neck, then



backward to put it on his flank. Under the shaggy, dusty hair



trembled and vibrated and rippled a wonderful muscular activity.



But Wrangle's flesh was still cold. What a cold-blooded brute



thought Venters, and felt in him a love for the horse he had



never given to any other. It would not have been humanly possible



for any rider, even though clutched by hate or revenge or a



passion to save a loved one or fear of his own life, to be



astride the sorrel to swing with his swing, to see his



magnificent stride and hear the rapid thunder of his hoofs, to



ride him in that race and not glory in the ride.







So, with his passion to kill still keen and unabated, Venters



lived out that ride, and drank a rider's sage-sweet cup of



wildness to the dregs.







When Wrangle's long mane, lashing in the wind, stung Venters in



the cheek, the sting added a beat to his flying pulse. He bent a



downward glance to try to see Wrangle's actual stride, and saw



only twinkling, darting streaks and the white rush of the trail.



He watched the sorrel's savage head, pointed level, his mouth



still closed and dry, but his nostrils distended as if he were



snorting unseen fire. Wrangle was the horse for a race with



death. Upon each side Venters saw the sage merged into a sailing,



colorless wall. In front sloped the lay of ground with its purple



breadth split by the white trail. The wind, blowing with heavy,



steady blast into his face, sickened him with enduring, sweet



odor, and filled his ears with a hollow, rushing roar.







Then for the hundredth time he measured the width of space



separating him from Jerry Card. Wrangle had ceased to gain. The



blacks were proving their fleetness. Venters watched Jerry Card,



admiring the little rider's horsemanship. He had the incomparable



seat of the upland rider, born in the saddle. It struck Venters



that Card had changed his position, or the position of the



horses. Presently Venters remembered positively that Jerry had



been leading Night on the right-hand side of the trail. The racer



was 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 was



really riderless. Night now carried Jerry Card.







"He's changed from one to the other!" ejaculated Venters,



realizing the astounding feat with unstinted admiration. "Changed



at full speed! Jerry Card, that's what you've done unless I'm



drunk on the smell of sage. But I've got to see the trick before



I believe it."







Thenceforth, while Wrangle sped on, Venters glued his eyes to the



little rider. Jerry Card rode as only he could ride. Of all the



daring horsemen of the uplands, Jerry was the one rider fitted to



bring out the greatness of the blacks in that long race. He had



them on a dead run, but not yet at the last strained and killing



pace. From time to time he glanced backward, as a wise general in



retreat calculating his chances and the power and speed of



pursuers, and the moment for the last desperate burst. No doubt,



Card, with his life at stake, gloried in that race, perhaps more



wildly than Venters. For he had been born to the sage and the



saddle and the wild. He was more than half horse. Not until the



last call--the sudden up-flashing instinct of



self-preservation--would he lose his skill and judgment and nerve



and the spirit of that race. Venters seemed to read Jerry's mind.



That little crime-stained rider was actually thinking of his



horses, husbanding their speed, handling them with knowledge of



years, glorying in their beautiful, swift, racing stride, and



wanting them to win the race when his own life hung suspended in



quivering balance. Again Jerry whirled in his saddle and the sun



flashed red on his face. Turning, he drew Black Star closer and



closer toward Night, till they ran side by side, as one horse.



Then Card raised himself in the saddle, slipped out of the



stirrups, and, somehow twisting himself, leaped upon Black Star.



He did not even lose the swing of the horse. Like a leech he was



there in the other saddle, and as the horses separated, his right



foot, that had been apparently doubled under him, shot down to



catch the stirrup. The grace and dexterity and daring of that



rider's act won something more than admiration from Venters.







For the distance of a mile Jerry rode Black Star and then changed



back to Night. But all Jerry's skill and the running of the



blacks 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 it



disappeared in hummocky ground. To the right, some few rods,



Venters saw a break in the sage, and this was the rim of



Deception Pass. Across the dark cleft gleamed the red of the



opposite wall. Venters imagined that the trail went down into the



Pass somewhere north of those ridges. And he realized that he



must and would overtake Jerry Card in this straight course of



five miles.







Cruelly he struck his spurs into Wrangle's flanks. A light touch



of spur was sufficient to make Wrangle plunge. And now, with a



ringing, wild snort, he seemed to double up in muscular



convulsions and to shoot forward with an impetus that almost



unseated Venters. The sage blurred by, the trail flashed by, and



the wind robbed him of breath and hearing. Jerry Card turned once



more. And the way he shifted to Black Star showed he had to make



his last desperate running. Venters aimed to the side of the



trail and sent a bullet puffing the dust beyond Jerry. Venters



hoped to frighten the rider and get him to take to the sage. But



Jerry returned the shot, and his ball struck dangerously close in



the dust at Wrangle's flying feet. Venters held his fire then,



while the rider emptied his revolver. For a mile, with Black Star



leaving Night behind and doing his utmost, Wrangle did not gain;



for another mile he gained little, if at all. In the third he



caught up with the now galloping Night and began to gain rapidly



on the other black.







Only a hundred yards now stretched between Black Star and



Wrangle. The giant sorrel thundered on--and on--and on. In every



yard 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 jarred



Venters out of the saddle! Wrangle's power and spirit and



momentum had begun to run him off his legs. Wrangle's great race



was nearly won--and run. Venters seemed to see the expanse before



him as a vast, sheeted, purple plain sliding under him. Black



Star moved in it as a blur. The rider, Jerry Card, appeared a



mere dot bobbing dimly. Wrangle thundered on--on--on! Venters



felt the increase in quivering, straining shock after every leap.



Flecks of foam flew into Venters's eyes, burning him, making him



see all the sage as red. But in that red haze he saw, or seemed



to 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 to



canter, canter to trot, trot to walk, and walk to stop, the great



sorrel 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 Night



came trotting faithfully down. Venters leaped off, still half



blind, reeling dizzily. In a moment he had recovered sufficiently



to have a care for Wrangle. Rapidly he took off the saddle and



bridle. The sorrel was reeking, heaving, whistling, shaking. But



he had still the strength to stand, and for him Venters had no



fears.







As Venters ran back to Black Star he saw the horse stagger on



shaking legs into the sage and go down in a heap. Upon reaching



him Venters removed the saddle and bridle. Black Star had been



killed on his legs, Venters thought. He had no hope for the



stricken horse. Black Star lay flat, covered with bloody froth,



mouth wide, tongue hanging, eyes glaring, and all his beautiful



body in convulsions.







Unable to stay there to see Jane's favorite racer die, Venters



hurried up the trail to meet the other black. On the way he kept



a sharp lookout for Jerry Card. Venters imagined the rider would



keep well out of range of the rifle, but, as he would be lost on



the sage without a horse, not improbably he would linger in the



vicinity on the chance of getting back one of the blacks. Night



soon came trotting up, hot and wet and run out. Venters led him



down near the others, and unsaddling him, let him loose to rest.



Night wearily lay down in the dust and rolled, proving himself



not yet spent.







Then Venters sat down to rest and think. Whatever the risk, he



was compelled to stay where he was, or comparatively near, for



the night. The horses must rest and drink. He must find water. He



was now seventy miles from Cottonwoods, and, he believed, close



to the canyon where the cattle trail must surely turn off and go



down 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 which



the trail turned. The ground lay in uneven ridges divided by



washes, and these sloped into the canyon. Following the canyon



line, he saw where its rim was broken by other intersecting



canyons, and farther down red walls and yellow cliffs leading



toward a deep blue cleft that he made sure was Deception Pass.



Walking out a few rods to a promontory, he found where the trail



went down. The descent was gradual, along a stone-walled trail,



and Venters felt sure that this was the place where Oldring drove



cattle into the Pass. There was, however, no indication at all



that he ever had driven cattle out at this point. Oldring had



many holes to his burrow.







In searching round in the little hollows Venters, much to his



relief, found water. He composed himself to rest and eat some



bread and meat, while he waited for a sufficient time to elapse



so that he could safely give the horses a drink. He judged the



hour to be somewhere around noon. Wrangle lay down to rest and



Night followed suit. So long as they were down Venters intended



to make no move. The longer they rested the better, and the safer



it would be to give them water. By and by he forced himself to go



over to where Black Star lay, expecting to find him dead. Instead



he found the racer partially if not wholly recovered. There was



recognition, even fire, in his big black eyes. Venters was



overjoyed. He sat by the black for a long time. Black Star



presently labored to his feet with a heave and a groan, shook



himself, and snorted for water. Venters repaired to the little



pool he had found, filled his sombrero, and gave the racer a



drink. Black Star gulped it at one draught, as if it were but a



drop, and pushed his nose into the hat and snorted for more.



Venters now led Night down to drink, and after a further time



Black Star also. Then the blacks began to graze.







The sorrel had wandered off down the sage between the trail and



the 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 one



ridge to another he saw where the horse had made muddy a pool of



water. It occurred to Venters then that Wrangle had drunk his



fill, and did not seem the worse for it, and might be anything



but easy to catch. And, true enough, he could not come within



roping reach of the sorrel. He tried for an hour, and gave up in



disgust. Wrangle did not seem so wild as simply perverse. In a



quandary Venters returned to the other horses, hoping much, yet



doubting more, that when Wrangle had grazed to suit himself he



might be caught.







As the afternoon wore away Venters's concern diminished, yet he



kept close watch on the blacks and the trail and the sage. There



was no telling of what Jerry Card might be capable. Venters



sullenly acquiesced to the idea that the rider had been too quick



and too shrewd for him. Strangely and doggedly, however, Venters



clung to his foreboding of Card's downfall.







The wind died away; the red sun topped the far distant western



rise of slope; and the long, creeping purple shadows lengthened.



The rims of the canyons gleamed crimson and the deep clefts



appeared to belch forth blue smoke. Silence enfolded the scene.







It was broken by a horrid, long-drawn scream of a horse and the



thudding of heavy hoofs. Venters sprang erect and wheeled south.



Along the canyon rim, near the edge, came Wrangle, once more in



thundering flight.







Venters gasped in amazement. Had the wild sorrel gone mad? His



head was high and twisted, in a most singular position for a



running horse. Suddenly Venters descried a frog-like shape



clinging to Wrangle's neck. Jerry Card! Somehow he had straddled



Wrangle and now stuck like a huge burr. But it was his strange



position and the sorrel's wild scream that shook Venters's



nerves. Wrangle was pounding toward the turn where the trail went



down. He plunged onward like a blind horse. More than one of his



leaps took him to the very edge of the precipice.







Jerry Card was bent forward with his teeth fast in the front of



Wrangle's nose! Venters saw it, and there flashed over him a



memory of this trick of a few desperate riders. He even thought



of one rider who had worn off his teeth in this terrible hold to



break or control desperate horses. Wrangle had indeed gone mad.



The marvel was what guided him. Was it the half-brute, the more



than half-horse instinct of Jerry Card? Whatever the mystery, it



was true. And in a few more rods Jerry would have the sorrel



turning into the trail leading down into the canyon.







"No--Jerry!" whispered Venters, stepping forward and throwing up



the rifle. He tried to catch the little humped, frog-like shape



over the sights. It was moving too fast; it was too small. Yet



Venters shot once ...twice...the third time...four times...five!



all wasted shots and precious seconds!







With a deep-muttered curse Venters caught Wrangle through the



sights and pulled the trigger. Plainly he heard the bullet thud.



Wrangle uttered a horrible strangling sound. In swift death



action he whirled, and with one last splendid leap he cleared the



canyon rim. And he whirled downward with the little frog-like



shape clinging to his neck!







There was a pause which seemed never ending, a shock, and an



instant s silence.







Then up rolled a heavy crash, a long roar of sliding rocks dying



away in distant echo, then silence unbroken.







Wrangle's race was run.





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