THE pungent odor of the camp-fire drifted down the swale, and carried with it the savory smell of the cooking supper. All afternoon, the Diamond H riders had been arriving; word had been passed that a feast would be spread at sundown, in honor of the owner of the "Diamond H" ranch, who had arrived for his first visit to the ranch in three years.

The riders had all arrived but young "Hank"he of the shiny spurs and new "chaps." No rider in the outfit possessed such complete trappings. Though Hank was not a regular "puncher," it pleased him mightily to be called one. He was a kind of messenger-boy for the outfit, and rode far and wide carrying orders from the foreman, or going down to the post for the mail. When in camp, he assisted the cook, a task he detested as being beneath his dignity. But Hank was proud of the Diamond H, and boasted that no ranch in Nevada had such riders and ropers.

The feast was nearing the end in the soft dusk of evening, when Hank charged down upon the scene at a reckless gallop, and stopped abruptly within the circle of the firelight.

The foreman straightened up with observing eye upon the foaming horse. "Did n't I tell you not to run Old Baldy any more?"

Every cow-puncher eyed Hank, and several tried to divert the foreman by witty remarks and laughter.

But Hank did not wither under the accusation. "I had a try at the Black Stallion," he observed, as he fixed his eyes on the owner.

"Where?" came a half-dozen demands at once. "Where?" rapped out the owner. It was like an explosion in their midst. The feast was scat

tered, and instantly there was a stampede of talk. Each rider was possessed of the same thought -to capture that wonderful steed that had so long led his herd whither he would, defying capture, daring to go where no horse ever had gone before, and upon whose head was set a price.

"I thought you said the black stallion never came down from the rough country?" The owner waited eagerly for the foreman's answer.

"It's the first time he 's shown up, down here, since we had the chase after him two years ago."

"Jess, I 'd like to have that horse, and I 'm willing to go to any amount of trouble to get him. But the question is, 'can we?'"

The foreman looked into the fire and ran his hands thoughtfully through his hair. At length he turned to the owner. "I believe we 've got the best chance at him, now that he 's left the rough country, that we 've ever had. He's an old fox, though, and there 's nothing he does n't know about being chased. It 's about as easy to round up a bird as to try to corner him. Still, the water 's all gone, higher up, and he 's got to range down here. If we only had more men and a mustang outfit, I believe we could-" The owner's heavy hand reached the foreman's shoulder and stopped him midway of the prediction.

"Get the men and the outfit. I'll foot the bills. If you get him, I'll hand you a year's salary. You can promise the men whatever reward you like, but the thing is, get that horse!"

Hank moved opposite the two men, and leaned forward across the embers of the fire. "Where did you see him, Hank?"

"About three miles up the valley by the spring. There were twenty in the herd he was leading."

"All right, Hank; get a fresh horse and ride down to the post and pick up every rider you can. Find old Sam Higler, and tell him he 's to be here with his canvas corral outfit by to-morrow night. Tell every one you see that the black 's come down, and there's a reward of a thousand dollars for the man who drops his rope on him and brings him in." Hank vanished in the direction of the rope corral, and five minutes later was riding rapidly toward the post. After he had gone, the owner turned to the foreman. "Jess," said he, "did I ever tell you where the stallion came from?" The foreman's interested face invited him to proceed.

"It was five years ago that a Syrian peddler was killed by a couple of half-breeds because he had this wonderful black stallion. The Indians took the horse clear across the desert to make their escape, but just when they were about to sell him, the stallion killed one, and lamed the other with his heels, and got away. It was not long before he appeared with a wild-horse herd, and since then he 's been the terror of the range, and there's not a man in Nevada who can boast of ever getting near enough to drop his rope on him. I doubt if he 's ever taken alive. Before I quit the ranch three years ago, I 'd ridden in a couple of chases after him, and I tell you he 's got sense, and legs that can put him over a hundred miles any day."

They sat in silence, each looking into the embers of the fire.

TWENTY Diamond H riders surrounded the valley early in the morning, and from the passes looked down at the wild-horse band led by the big black stallion. It was a long, narrow valley, and the eastern wall had but a single pass where anything but winged creatures could escape. At the upper end the valley narrowed, and leading down into it was an old, time-worn pass; here were posted three men with as many extra horses. West of the valley, the ridge rose abruptly. In ten miles it had only five breaks, where steep cañons penetrated its rocky top and broke the barrier. At each break, two men posted themselves and waited. They gained these passes by circuitous routes. The lower end of the valley was guarded by three men, who lounged about, allowing their horses to graze.

At noon, Hank arrived upon a jaded horse, and singly, or by twos and threes, the other "punchers" came in during the afternoon, each mounted on his best horse, and with carefully coiled ropes. At dark, Sam Higler put in appearance with his mustang trap, which was set up over night across the lower end of the valley. This trap consisted

of a brown canvas twelve feet high, which represented an impassable wall. Near the center the wall curved sharply, making a natural corner with an inviting opening leading into a canvas corral beyond. It was a cunning contrivance, and in it scores of wild mustangs had been captured. It was here that they hoped to capture the famous stallion.

Extra men were sent to reinforce the guards at all the passes. Fifteen of the best ropers were kept at camp, and these were to take part at the finish of the chase.

From the main ranch there had been sent up a dozen thoroughbred, long-legged, racing horses, which were to be used in case the stallion broke through the barrier and escaped from the valley, or were to be held in reserve until the chase had tired out the crafty leader. Then they were to appear suddenly from behind the canvas wall, and go after the herd like the wind.

Orders were to shoot the stallion if he broke through the lines. The rest of the herd was worth four thousand dollars, and their addition to the ranch stock would be valuable.

The only ones at breakfast at the chuck wagon that morning were the owner, the foreman, and Hank. While the men settled the final details of the chase, Hank tidied up the camp things and saddled his horse.

"Hank, one of the boys rode back yesterday to report that there 's still a little water at the muddy spring water-hole." Hank was silent; sudden fear had chilled him. The foreman continued: "If the foxy old stallion gets away from us in the valley, that 's the only place in a hundred miles he can get water; and I guess after we 've run him a hundred miles or so, he'll be wanting water, too. You'd better ride up to the muddy spring, Hank, and stick it out there unti! dark. There's no telling what may happen to day, but whatever comes, the chase will end at dark."

Hank turned away, blinking fast and swallowing hard. His hopes of riding with the foreman and the owner were thus suddenly blasted, leaving behind a sense of revolt that fairly hurt. After discovering the horse, he would lose all the excitement of the chase.

Soon after daylight, the foreman and the owner rode into the valley above the canvas wall. They galloped easily toward the spring where Hank had seen the horses two days before. When they rounded a knoll a half-mile below the waterhole, they sighted the wonderful stallion on guard on a slight elevation, with the herd feeding quietly below. Instantly the band was off up the valley, and the foreman was riding rapidly in

pursuit. The owner stopped at the spring, where he would wait until the time came for the concerted dash and capture of the big black. It was a waiting game, and patience was to play an important part.

Ten miles up the valley, straight for the steep trail at the upper end, swept the black leader at the head of his herd. But a quarter of a mile from the pass he stopped, wheeled, and doubled back. The foreman was riding near the western wall, and the band passed him on its return trip without being forced into too close quarters.

One of the men on guard at the pass dashed down with a fresh horse, and five minutes later the foreman was after the herd again with the second horse. He galloped along a half-mile behind the stallion, and not once did he press the chase or excite the band unduly.

At the sight of the brown canvas wall barring his way, the stallion spun around and fled wildly up the valley again. But three of the others went straight on through the narrow opening at the center, and were easy victims in the canvas corral. On another fresh horse, the foreman continued the chase. Not once did he come nearer than the half-mile, and never did he permit the band to stop for more than a minute or two at a time.

When within a quarter of a mile of the pass,

"TEN MILES UP THE VALLEY SWEPT THE

the stallion again scented danger, and again. wheeled back down the valley. Once more a man dashed out from hiding with a fresh horse, and the chase continued. It was settling down now to one of dogged endurance, with the odds against the stallion. Fresh horses were in plenty for the foreman, but the wonderful black kept on, hour after hour, leading his dwindling band with what seemed tireless energy. Ceaselessly they kept him moving. Three round trips of the valley, sixty miles, and ten of his mates were out of the chase, and before the fourth round of the valley was finished, they were dropping out rapidly, being roped and dragged in submission to the canvas corral.

Frequently now the stallion would stop and watch until his relentless pursuer was within a hundred yards; then he would be off again. His black coat was covered with foam; he was becoming uncertain on his feet, and stumbled often. He approached the water-hole, but it guarded. Wearily he turned back down the valley because it was easier going.

The foreman fired three quick signal shots, and from behind the brown canvas wall rode the best ropers of the region, mounted on the fleetest horses. The stallion sloped his flight and went on down the valley along the western side. The riders waited across the valley until he had