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 was 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

passed, then they spread out across the level floor.

Ten abreast, and absolutely certain of success, they galloped easily along behind the stallion as he went on straight toward the canvas barrier. They did not hurry; there was no need; an easy gallop kept pace with the stallion's now unsteady gait.

A hundred yards from the barrier, he wheeled defiantly. Facing them, he waited. The foreman shouted an order, and they dashed wildly forward, each eager to be first to drop his rope over the wary head and win eternal fame in the region as the subduer of the most wonderful horse in Nevada.

The stallion waited their coming with heaving sides and flaming eyes. When the nearest riders were fifty feet away, he charged directly toward them, getting into his full stride in spite of his weariness, and by the time he reached them, he was going at top speed. His unexpected charge threw the riders into confusion. Their racing horses were not trained to the roping game like their cow-horses; besides, each rider was racing wildly, and each had his full length of rope ready for a long cast in order to be first.

Straight between two riders went the stallion. The men were alert and active in spite of their mounts. They made casts at the same instant,

and their ropes met in mid air above his head. One loop dropped short, and the other was so large that he leaped half through before the man could snake the slack with a quick backward jerk of his hand and tighten up. Even then, his horse was broadside when the plunging stallion reached the end of the rope with a tremendous charge that lifted the racer clear of his feet and flung him violently to the ground.

To save himself, the man instinctively let go the rope, which he had snubbed around the saddle horn, and at the stallion's first lunge it slipped from the saddle and went trailing off behind the black. Three leaps more, and it dropped harmlessly to the ground. The stallion was free again.

The very number of his pursuers was his advantage. A hundred feet away the side of the valley rose at half pitch, and rough rocks and dense scrub were scattered thickly up the slope. Up he went over ragged rock slabs, forcing his way through the scrub where no ridden horse could follow.

Straight up the mountain the great horse fought his way, though it was strewn with huge blocks of bare rock piled in a forbidding mass of debris. The route looked impossible to any animal except a man.

"Don't shoot! He's all in," ordered the foreman. From above came the shouts of the men

guarding the pass: "Let him come! We'll get him."

Desperately the men below tried to follow, and impatiently the men at the top waited and watched his slow upward progress. They straightened their ropes, tightened their cinches, and made sure that every detail was ready. Behind them, back of the ridge top, lay a narrow plateau, and beyond rose a second ridge. Upon this level bench

fought his mad way, always toward the top. His progress was slow and painful. Often he was minutes gaining a few feet. Still, nothing daunted nor defeated him. The men watching from above laughed, exulted at the sight.

A narrow rock-filled gully ran back across the plateau toward the ridge beyond. Scrub growth filled in between the rocks. It was to the mouth of this gully that the horse finally forced his way.

they would capture the famous stallion, and the reward.

A hundred feet from the top, the stallion doubled back, leaped boldly over a narrow chasm, and followed along a narrow ledge of bare rock that ran along the face of the cliff. It was barely wide enough for him to edge along, and there was every chance that it might pinch out.

But the ledge did not pinch out, and the stallion came to the end of it fifty yards farther, where a section of the barrier had gone out with the rock slide. Up over the rock slabs the horse

The men were waiting for him on foot. Each dropped his rope over the coveted head with a yell of triumph.

No sooner did the ropes tighten upon the stallion's neck than he became an explosion of action. Up the slope toward the level ground he charged, and the men, confident of success, let him go.

Once in the open, they stopped him by throwing their weight against their ropes. With flaming eyes, mouth open, and ears laid flat, the stallion came down at them, a terrible monster of rage.

The horse was within ten feet of the men, when one of them let go his rope and dived aside as the black bulk lurched by. The other threw his weight against his rope, and the stallion turned upon him with bared teeth, and awful, flashing eyes. He saved himself only by leaping blindly into the scrub in the gully.

When the men recovered their feet, they rushed to their horses, and were after the runaway pell-mell. But the stallion continued along the broken top of the ridge, where it seemed as if he would surely tumble headlong back into the valley. He dared every obstacle for liberty, leaped treacherous gaps in the rock barrier where his enemies dared not follow, and made his way across fields of huge, broken rocks where no other horse had ever dared.

On the level, the fresh horses of the men could easily have overtaken him; but among the rocks and chasms of the ridge top, they had difficulty in keeping him in sight. Their horses were not

eeing that he was about to gain the second uge top, the men opened on him with their sixshooters, but he plunged desperately into the growth of scrub just back of the second ridge top, and went crashing headlong out of sight, and safe from the spiteful guns.

Ten minutes after the stallion disappeared into the scrub, the men reached the top of the ridge and saw the plain trail where he had entered the thicket. They separated and started circling around the copse in opposite directions, chagrined at their failure to either capture or kill the wonderful black horse. They rode desperately to intercept him when he should emerge from the far side of the sheltering growth. But, as soon as they were out of hearing, the crafty animal came out at the spot where he had entered the thicket, and started westward along the rough ridge top. Sometimes he stopped for a moment to rest, and always he watched the back trail. When he went on again, he followed the roughest way he could find.

An hour later, the men from the valley came up and found his tracks, which told once more how the big black stallion had won his freedom. In the second valley, they found where he had joined another wild-horse band. But they knew he would soon leave the band and seek shelter; so they scattered and began careful search for tracks near every thicket. They hoped to find him before he had sufficiently rested to run away from them.

herd abruptly, he rested a few minutes, then pushed on to a hiding-place. But he allowed little time for rest; always he went on and on, putting as much distance between himself and his enemies as his strength would permit. Thus it was, he worked his way to the lonely water-hole.

It was a game for life and freedom by the stallion, and he never gave up. Leaving the wild

Through all the long hours, Hank waited at the muddy spring beside it. While he kept lonely vigil, his heart welled up against the foreman and the others. He almost hoped that the stallion would get away. Surely the chase was over, long since, for the sun was dropping low. How

ever, his orders were to wait until dark, and he would stick it out. Not because he cared what any of them thought,. or said, or did, but because he was a boy-and almost a man. They had not given him a fair chance, and he knew that they would give the stallion even less.

At four in the afternoon, Hank unsaddled Old Baldy, hobbled him, and allowed him to graze away from the spring. Behind a scrub where the sand had drifted, he scooped out a hole with his hands, and snuggled in the bottom with his six-shooter within touch. Long rides, loss of sleep, and constant vigil had wearied him more than he knew. In five minutes he was asleep. The sun touched the distant mountains and sank slowly behind them.

A wild snort awakened him, and he started up stupidly, half awake, gun in hand. He arose cautiously. Thirty feet away stood the stallion, legs braced wide apart to keep from falling, muscles all a-quiver. He was reeking with foam and dirt. But his eyes were blazing with that terrible fear and hate of man. The breeze carried the man-smell away from the stallion, and undersized Hank, standing knee-deep in the sand-pit, did not look formidable.

For a moment they faced each other across the water-hole, each immovable with surprise. Instinctively, Hank's gun hand crept out and rose slowly in front, sliding out toward the stallion. He covered a foam fleck between the blazing eyes, held the gun steady there for a second, then he lowered it. "He can't get away anyhow," he said aloud.

At the sound of his voice, the stallion pulled himself together with a jerk. Plainly, though, he was at the end of his race. He must have water or perish. Slowly he advanced. A few steps from the spring he halted, his instinct warning him against nearer approach to his hated enemy. But he was too weak to run away, and, after hesitating, he staggered forward and dropped to his knees at the water-hole.

"All right, old fellow, you win!" and Hank replaced his gun in its holster and stood watching as the horse buried his nose in the muddy water and drank in great, sobbing gulps, until the water-hole was empty. Hank was glad he had dug it out in the morning. The little hole held perhaps two buckets of dark water, but it made only a taste for the stallion.

"Looks like they 'd given you a run for your life, old fellow," and Hank moved forward slowly, continued talking, and edging nearer. Soothingly he talked his way forward while the horse held his hot muzzle pressed against the wet sand, eagerly sucking up the water as it flowed

slowly forth. Its slowness made him impatient, and he began pawing wildly.

"Now don't do that!" Hank chided; “don't you see you 've filled up the hole?"

Far back in his mind, the stallion must have remembered that men had been kind to him; for he was not afraid now of this first man-being who had been kind to him since he escaped the Indians. There was something in the gentle touch of the boy that thrilled him with vague memories. He waited patiently while with bare hands Hank scooped out the water-hole.

Tears were streaming down Hank's boyish face as he loosened the two ropes and tossed them aside. Patting the foam-flecked neck, he talked on and on. The horse waited impatiently for the water that came so maddeningly slow. After his second draft, he nosed Hank and whinnied eagerly.

Darkness settled unnoticed. Suddenly the stallion lifted his head, alert and looked intently toward the east, ears pricked sharply forward, and alarm in his manner. Hank could see or hear nothing, but he watched the revived horse keenly. A moment later came distant hoof-beats, and the stallion galloped stiffly away into the darkness.

Soon the rough voice of a man greeted Hank as he stood motionless by the water-hole.

"Hello, fellows! Did you get him?" his question saved him from having to answer that question himself, and conveyed to the men exactly what he wished it to. He had scooped out a hole in the sand, tossed the ropes into it, and smoothed the sand over them.

Hank was silent on the homeward ride. His heart was filled with conflicting emotions, and he heard only part of the talk about the daredevil horse that had climbed rock walls and fought for his freedom. It seemed to be the general opinion that the stallion had joined another band.

FIFTEEN miles across the rough country Hank rode every Saturday afternoon. He had asked, then demanded, of the foreman this half-holiday, and had at last secured it through strategy. In his pockets weré lumps of sugar, offerings of salt, bread, and other treats for the stallion. Twice during the first month he had sighted the wonderful black, and had coaxed him to approach and accept the offerings he had brought to cement their friendship. If the stallion failed to keep the tryst, Hank would return to the ranch dejected and morose.

It was near round-up time, and some extra work had delayed Hank past his usual startingtime. He did not take the precaution of starting