Riders of the Purple Sage

by Zane Grey

  CHAPTER XVII. WRANGLE'S RACE RUN

  The plan eventually decided upon by the lovers was for Venters to go tothe village, secure a horse and some kind of a disguise for Bess, orat least less striking apparel than her present garb, and to returnpost-haste to the valley. Meanwhile, she would add to their store ofgold. Then they would strike the long and perilous trail to ride out ofUtah. In the event of his inability to fetch back a horse for her, theyintended to make the giant sorrel carry double. The gold, a little food,saddle blankets, and Venters's guns were to compose the light outfitwith which they would make the start.

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

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

  Once again Bess bade Venters farewell under the shadow of BalancingRock, and this time it was with whispered hope and tenderness andpassionate trust. Long after he had left her, all down through theoutlet to the Pass, the clinging clasp of her arms, the sweetness ofher lips, and the sense of a new and exquisite birth of character in herremained hauntingly and thrillingly in his mind. The girl who had sadlycalled herself nameless and nothing had been marvelously transformedin 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 beforgotten so that all his mind could be addressed to the trip so fraughtwith danger.

  He carried only his rifle, revolver, and a small quantity of bread andmeat, and thus lightly burdened, he made swift progress down the slopeand 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 ofcanyon wall, and by their aid he slipped through the dense thickets tothe grassy enclosure. Wrangle stood in the center of it with his headup, and he appeared black and of gigantic proportions in the dim light.Venters whistled softly, began a slow approach, and then called. Thehorse snorted and, plunging away with dull, heavy sound of hoofs, hedisappeared in the gloom. "Wilder than ever!" muttered Venters. Hefollowed the sorrel into the narrowing split between the walls, andpresently had to desist because he could not see a foot in advance. Ashe went back toward the open Wrangle jumped out of an ebony shadow ofcliff and like a thunderbolt shot huge and black past him down intothe starlit glade. Deciding that all attempts to catch Wrangle at nightwould be useless, Venters repaired to the shelving rock where he hadhidden saddle and blanket, and there went to sleep.

  The first peep of day found him stirring, and as soon as it was lightenough to distinguish objects, he took his lasso off his saddle and wentout to rope the sorrel. He espied Wrangle at the lower end of the coveand approached him in a perfectly natural manner. When he got nearenough, Wrangle evidently recognized him, but was too wild to stand.He ran up the glade and on into the narrow lane between the walls. Thisfavored Venters's speedy capture of the horse, so, coiling his nooseready to throw, he hurried on. Wrangle let Venters get to within ahundred feet and then he broke. But as he plunged by, rapidly gettinginto his stride, Venters made a perfect throw with the rope. He hadtime to brace himself for the shock; nevertheless, Wrangle threw him anddragged him several yards before halting.

  "You wild devil," said Venters, as he slowly pulled Wrangle up. "Don'tyou know me? Come now--old fellow--so--so--"

  Wrangle yielded to the lasso and then to Venters's strong hand. He wasas 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 lethim squeeze through, at length reached the open. Sharp survey in eachdirection assured him of the usual lonely nature of the canyon, then hewas in the saddle, riding south.

  Wrangle's long, swinging canter was a wonderful ground-gainer. Hisstride was almost twice that of an ordinary horse; and his endurance wasequally remarkable. Venters pulled him in occasionally, and walked himup the stretches of rising ground and along the soft washes. Wranglehad never yet shown any indication of distress while Venters rode him.Nevertheless, there was now reason to save the horse, therefore Ventersdid not resort to the hurry that had characterized his former trip.He camped at the last water in the Pass. What distance that was toCottonwoods he did not know; he calculated, however, that it was in theneighborhood of fifty miles.

  Early in the morning he proceeded on his way, and about the middle ofthe forenoon reached the constricted gap that marked the southerly endof the Pass, and through which led the trail up to the sage-level. Hespied 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 reston the level above, and during this he scanned the wide purple reachesof 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. Hehad proceeded for perhaps a couple of miles when Wrangle stopped with asuddenness that threw Venters heavily against the pommel.

  "What's wrong, old boy?" called Venters, looking down for a loose shoeor a snake or a foot lamed by a picked-up stone. Unrewarded, he raisedhimself from his scrutiny. Wrangle stood stiff head high, with hislong ears erect. Thus guided, Venters swiftly gazed ahead to make out adust-clouded, dark group of horsemen riding down the slope. If they hadseen 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. Heslipped out of the saddle and led Wrangle behind the tallest sage-brush.It might serve to conceal them until the riders were close enough forhim to see who they were; after that he would be indifferent to how soonthey discovered him.

  After looking to his rifle and ascertaining that it was in workingorder, he watched, and as he watched, slowly the force of a bitterfierceness, long dormant, gathered ready to flame into life. If thoseriders 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 telltheir number. How unusual that their horses did not see Wrangle! Butsuch failure, Venters decided, was owing to the speed with which theywere traveling. They moved at a swift canter affected more by rustlersthan by riders. Venters grew concerned over the possibility that thesehorsemen would actually ride down on him before he had a chance totell what to expect. When they were within three hundred yards hedeliberately led Wrangle out into the trail.

  Then he heard shouts, and the hard scrape of sliding hoofs, and sawhorses rear and plunge back with up-flung heads and flying manes.Several little white puffs of smoke appeared sharply against the blackbackground of riders and horses, and shots rang out. Bullets struck farin front of Venters, and whipped up the dust and then hummed low intothe sage. The range was great for revolvers, but whether the shots weremeant to kill or merely to check advance, they were enough to fire thatwaiting ferocity in Venters. Slipping his arm through the bridle, sothat Wrangle could not get away, Venters lifted his rifle and pulled thetrigger twice.

  He saw the first horseman lean sideways and fall. He saw another lurchin his saddle and heard a cry of pain. Then Wrangle, plunging in fright,lifted Venters and nearly threw him. He jerked the horse down witha 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 loopover the pommel. Then, with grinding teeth, he looked to see what theissue would be.

  The band had scattered so as not to afford such a broad mark forbullets. The riders faced Venters, some with red-belching guns. He hearda sharper report, and just as Wrangle plunged again he caught the whimof a leaden missile that would have hit him but for
Wrangle's suddenjump. A swift, hot wave, turning cold, passed over Venters. Deliberatelyhe picked out the one rider with a carbine, and killed him. Wranglesnorted shrilly and bolted into the sage. Venters let him run a fewrods, then with iron arm checked him.

  Five riders, surely rustlers, were left. One leaped out of the saddle tosecure his fallen comrade's carbine. A shot from Venters, which missedthe man but sent the dust flying over him made him run back to hishorse. Then they separated. The crippled rider went one way; the onefrustrated in his attempt to get the carbine rode another, Ventersthought he made out a third rider, carrying a strange-appearing bundleand disappearing in the sage. But in the rapidity of action and visionhe could not discern what it was. Two riders with three horses swungout to the right. Afraid of the long rifle--a burdensome weapon seldomcarried by rustlers or riders--they had been put to rout.

  Suddenly Venters discovered that one of the two men last noted wasriding Jane Withersteen's horse Bells--the beautiful bay racer she hadgiven to Lassiter. Venters uttered a savage outcry. Then the small,wiry, frog-like shape of the second rider, and the ease and grace of hisseat in the saddle--things so strikingly incongruous--grew more and morefamiliar in Venters's sight.

  "Jerry Card!" cried Venters.

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

  "It's Jerry Card!" he exclaimed, instantly. "And he's riding Black Starand leading Night!"

  The long-kindling, stormy fire in Venters's heart burst into flame. Hespurred Wrangle, and as the horse lengthened his stride Venters slippedcartridges 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, ridingeasily down the slope. Venters marked the smooth gait, and understood itwhen Wrangle galloped out of the sage into the broad cattle trail,down which Venters had once tracked Jane Withersteen's red herd. Thishard-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 didlikewise. Then the three racers lengthened their stride to the pointwhere the swinging canter was ready to break into a gallop.

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

  Venters knew he bestrode the strongest, swiftest, most tireless horseever ridden by any rider across the Utah uplands. Recalling JaneWithersteen's devoted assurance that Night could run neck and neck withWrangle, and Black Star could show his heels to him, Venters wishedthat Jane were there to see the race to recover her blacks and in theunqualified superiority of the giant sorrel. Then Venters found himselfthankful that she was absent, for he meant that race to end in JerryCard's death. The first flush, the raging of Venters's wrath, passed, toleave him in sullen, almost cold possession of his will. It was a deadlymood, utterly foreign to his nature, engendered, fostered, and releasedby the wild passions of wild men in a wild country. The strength inhim then--the thing rife in him that was not hate, but something asremorseless--might have been the fiery fruition of a whole lifetime ofvengeful quest. Nothing could have stopped him.

  Venters thought out the race shrewdly. The rider on Bells would probablydrop behind and take to the sage. What he did was of little momentto Venters. To stop Jerry Card, his evil hidden career as well ashis present flight, and then to catch the blacks--that was all thatconcerned Venters. The cattle trail wound for miles and miles down theslope. Venters saw with a rider's keen vision ten, fifteen, twenty milesof clear purple sage. There were no on-coming riders or rustlers to aidCard. His only 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 kill themoutright. 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 appreciablycloser to the three horses. Jerry Card turned again, and when he saw howthe 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 Ventersrestrained 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 trainedto run. Slowly Wrangle closed the gap down to a quarter of a mile, andcrept closer and closer.

  Jerry Card wheeled once more. Venters distinctly saw the red flash ofhis red face. This time he looked long. Venters laughed. He knew whatpassed in Card's mind. The rider was trying to make out what horse ithappened to be that thus gained on Jane Withersteen's peerless racers.Wrangle had so long been away from the village that not improbably Jerryhad forgotten. Besides, whatever Jerry's qualifications for his fame asthe greatest rider of the sage, certain it was that his best point wasnot far-sightedness. He had not recognized Wrangle. After what must havebeen a searching gaze he got his comrade to face about. This action gaveVenters amusement. It spoke so surely of the facts that neither Cardnor the rustler actually knew their danger. Yet if they kept to thetrail--and the last thing such men would do would be to leave it--theywere both doomed.

  This comrade of Card's whirled far around in his saddle, and he evenshaded 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 flinghis right arm up and down. That flinging Venters knew to be the lashingof Bells. Jerry also became active. And the three racers lengthened outinto a run.

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

  Venters laid the reins on Wrangle's neck and dropped the loop overthe pommel. The sorrel needed no guiding on that smooth trail. He wassurer-footed in a run than at any other fast gait, and his running gavethe impression of something devilish. He might now have been actuated byVenters's spirit; undoubtedly his savage running fitted the mood of hisrider. Venters bent forward swinging with the horse, and gripped hisrifle. 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 rustlerwould soon take to the sage. Yet he did not. Not improbably he reasonedthat the powerful sorrel could more easily overtake Bells in the heaviergoing outside of the trail. Soon only a few hundred yards lay betweenBells 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 whenBells was out of line with the forward horses. Venters had it in himto kill these men as if they were skunk-bitten coyotes, but also he hadrestraint enough to keep from shooting one of Jane's beloved Arabians.

  No great distance was covered, however, before Bells swerved to theleft, out of line with Black Star and Night. Then Venters, aiming highand waiting for the pause between Wrangle's great strides, began to takesnap shots at the rustler. The fleeing rider presented a broad targetfor 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 effecton Bells. Yet, despite these considerations, making the shot exceedinglydifficult, Venters's confidence, like his implacability, saw a speedyand fatal termination of that rustler's race. On the sixth shot therustler threw up his arms and took a flying tumble off his horse. Herolled over and over, hunched himself to a half-erect position, fell,and then dragged himself into the sage. As Venters went thundering by hepeered keenly into the sage, but caught no sign of the man. Bells ran afew hundred yards, slowed up, and had stopped when Wrangle passed him.

  Again Venters began slipping fresh cartridges into the magazine of hisrifle, and his hand was so sure and steady that he did not drop a singlecartridge. With the eye of a rider and the judgment of a marksman heonce more measured the distance betwe
en him and Jerry Card. Wrangle hadgained, bringing him into rifle range. Venters was hard put to it nownot to shoot, but thought it better to withhold his fire. Jerry, who, inanticipation of a running fusillade, had huddled himself into a littletwisted ball on Black Star's neck, now surmising that this pursuer wouldmake sure of not wounding one of the blacks, rose to his natural seat inthe saddle.

  In his mind perhaps, as certainly as in Venters's, this moment was thebeginning of the real race.

  Venters leaned forward to put his hand on Wrangle's neck, then backwardto put it on his flank. Under the shaggy, dusty hair trembled andvibrated and rippled a wonderful muscular activity. But Wrangle's fleshwas still cold. What a cold-blooded brute thought Venters, and felt inhim a love for the horse he had never given to any other. It would nothave been humanly possible for any rider, even though clutched by hateor revenge or a passion to save a loved one or fear of his own life, tobe astride the sorrel to swing with his swing, to see his magnificentstride and hear the rapid thunder of his hoofs, to ride him in that raceand not glory in the ride.

  So, with his passion to kill still keen and unabated, Venters lived outthat 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 thecheek, the sting added a beat to his flying pulse. He bent a downwardglance 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'ssavage head, pointed level, his mouth still closed and dry, but hisnostrils distended as if he were snorting unseen fire. Wrangle was thehorse for a race with death. Upon each side Venters saw the sage mergedinto a sailing, colorless wall. In front sloped the lay of ground withits purple breadth split by the white trail. The wind, blowing withheavy, 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 space separatinghim from Jerry Card. Wrangle had ceased to gain. The blacks were provingtheir fleetness. Venters watched Jerry Card, admiring the little rider'shorsemanship. He had the incomparable seat of the upland rider, born inthe saddle. It struck Venters that Card had changed his position, orthe position of the horses. Presently Venters remembered positively thatJerry had been leading Night on the right-hand side of the trail. Theracer 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. Anotherclearer, keener gaze assured Venters that Black Star was reallyriderless. Night now carried Jerry Card.

  "He's changed from one to the other!" ejaculated Venters, realizing theastounding feat with unstinted admiration. "Changed at full speed! JerryCard, that's what you've done unless I'm drunk on the smell of sage. ButI've got to see the trick before I believe it."

  Thenceforth, while Wrangle sped on, Venters glued his eyes to the littlerider. Jerry Card rode as only he could ride. Of all the daringhorsemen of the uplands, Jerry was the one rider fitted to bring out thegreatness 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 heglanced backward, as a wise general in retreat calculating his chancesand the power and speed of pursuers, and the moment for the lastdesperate burst. No doubt, Card, with his life at stake, gloried in thatrace, perhaps more wildly than Venters. For he had been born to the sageand the saddle and the wild. He was more than half horse. Not until thelast call--the sudden up-flashing instinct of self-preservation--wouldhe 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 wasactually thinking of his horses, husbanding their speed, handling themwith knowledge of years, glorying in their beautiful, swift, racingstride, and wanting them to win the race when his own life hungsuspended in quivering balance. Again Jerry whirled in his saddle andthe sun flashed red on his face. Turning, he drew Black Star closer andcloser toward Night, till they ran side by side, as one horse. Then Cardraised himself in the saddle, slipped out of the stirrups, and, somehowtwisting himself, leaped upon Black Star. He did not even lose the swingof the horse. Like a leech he was there in the other saddle, and as thehorses separated, his right foot, that had been apparently doubled underhim, shot down to catch the stirrup. The grace and dexterity and daringof that rider's act won something more than admiration from Venters.

  For the distance of a mile Jerry rode Black Star and then changed backto Night. But all Jerry's skill and the running of the blacks couldavail little more against the sorrel.

  Venters peered far ahead, studying the lay of the land. Straightawayfor five miles the trail stretched, and then it disappeared in hummockyground. 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 gleamedthe red of the opposite wall. Venters imagined that the trail went downinto the Pass somewhere north of those ridges. And he realized thathe must and would overtake Jerry Card in this straight course of fivemiles.

  Cruelly he struck his spurs into Wrangle's flanks. A light touch of spurwas sufficient to make Wrangle plunge. And now, with a ringing, wildsnort, he seemed to double up in muscular convulsions and to shootforward with an impetus that almost unseated Venters. The sage blurredby, 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 showedhe had to make his last desperate running. Venters aimed to the side ofthe trail and sent a bullet puffing the dust beyond Jerry. Ventershoped to frighten the rider and get him to take to the sage. But Jerryreturned the shot, and his ball struck dangerously close in the dustat Wrangle's flying feet. Venters held his fire then, while the rideremptied his revolver. For a mile, with Black Star leaving Night behindand doing his utmost, Wrangle did not gain; for another mile he gainedlittle, if at all. In the third he caught up with the now gallopingNight and began to gain rapidly on the other black.

  Only a hundred yards now stretched between Black Star and Wrangle. Thegiant sorrel thundered on--and on--and on. In every yard he gaineda foot. He was whistling through his nostrils, wringing wet, flyinglather, and as hot as fire. Savage as ever, strong as ever, fast asever, but each tremendous stride jarred Venters out of the saddle!Wrangle's power and spirit and momentum had begun to run him off hislegs. Wrangle's great race was nearly won--and run. Venters seemed tosee the expanse before him as a vast, sheeted, purple plain slidingunder him. Black Star moved in it as a blur. The rider, Jerry Card,appeared a mere dot bobbing dimly. Wrangle thundered on--on--on! Ventersfelt the increase in quivering, straining shock after every leap. Flecksof foam flew into Venters's eyes, burning him, making him see all thesage as red. But in that red haze he saw, or seemed to see, Black Starsuddenly riderless and with broken gait. Wrangle thundered on to changehis pace with a violent break. Then Venters pulled him hard. From runto gallop, gallop to canter, canter to trot, trot to walk, and walk tostop, the great sorrel ended his race.

  Venters looked back. Black Star stood riderless in the trail. JerryCard had taken to the sage. Far up the white trail Night came trottingfaithfully 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, andfor him Venters had no fears.

  As Venters ran back to Black Star he saw the horse stagger on shakinglegs into the sage and go down in a heap. Upon reaching him Ventersremoved the saddle and bridle. Black Star had been killed on his legs,Venters thought. He had no hope for the stricken horse. Black Starlay flat, covered with bloody froth, mouth wide, tongue hanging, eyesglaring, and all his beautiful body in convulsions.

  Unable to stay there to see Jane's favorite racer die, Venters hurriedup the trail to meet the other black. On the way he kept a sharp lookoutfor Jerry Card. Venters imagined the rider would keep well out of rangeof 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 backone 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 looseto 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, he wascompelled to stay where he was, or comparatively near, for the night.The horses must rest and drink. He must find water. He was now seventymiles from Cottonwoods, and, he believed, close to the canyon where thecattle trail must surely turn off and go down into the Pass. After awhile he rose to survey the valley.

  He was very near to the ragged edge of a deep canyon into which thetrail turned. The ground lay in uneven ridges divided by washes, andthese sloped into the canyon. Following the canyon line, he saw whereits rim was broken by other intersecting canyons, and farther down redwalls and yellow cliffs leading toward a deep blue cleft that he madesure was Deception Pass. Walking out a few rods to a promontory, hefound where the trail went down. The descent was gradual, along astone-walled trail, and Venters felt sure that this was the place whereOldring drove cattle into the Pass. There was, however, no indication atall that he ever had driven cattle out at this point. Oldring had manyholes 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 safelygive 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 theywere down Venters intended to make no move. The longer they restedthe better, and the safer it would be to give them water. By and by heforced himself to go over to where Black Star lay, expecting to findhim dead. Instead he found the racer partially if not wholly recovered.There was recognition, even fire, in his big black eyes. Venters wasoverjoyed. He sat by the black for a long time. Black Star presentlylabored to his feet with a heave and a groan, shook himself, and snortedfor water. Venters repaired to the little pool he had found, filledhis sombrero, and gave the racer a drink. Black Star gulped it at onedraught, as if it were but a drop, and pushed his nose into the hatand snorted for more. Venters now led Night down to drink, and after afurther time Black Star also. Then the blacks began to graze.

  The sorrel had wandered off down the sage between the trail and thecanyon. Once or twice he disappeared in little swales. Finally Ventersconcluded Wrangle had grazed far enough, and, taking his lasso, he wentto fetch him back. In crossing from one ridge to another he saw wherethe horse had made muddy a pool of water. It occurred to Venters thenthat Wrangle had drunk his fill, and did not seem the worse for it, andmight be anything but easy to catch. And, true enough, he could not comewithin roping reach of the sorrel. He tried for an hour, and gave up indisgust. Wrangle did not seem so wild as simply perverse. In a quandaryVenters 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 keptclose watch on the blacks and the trail and the sage. There was notelling of what Jerry Card might be capable. Venters sullenly acquiescedto the idea that the rider had been too quick and too shrewd for him.Strangely and doggedly, however, Venters clung to his foreboding ofCard's downfall.

  The wind died away; the red sun topped the far distant western rise ofslope; and the long, creeping purple shadows lengthened. The rims of thecanyons gleamed crimson and the deep clefts appeared to belch forth bluesmoke. Silence enfolded the scene.

  It was broken by a horrid, long-drawn scream of a horse and the thuddingof heavy hoofs. Venters sprang erect and wheeled south. Along the canyonrim, near the edge, came Wrangle, once more in thundering flight.

  Venters gasped in amazement. Had the wild sorrel gone mad? His headwas 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 hugeburr. But it was his strange position and the sorrel's wild scream thatshook Venters's nerves. Wrangle was pounding toward the turn where thetrail went down. He plunged onward like a blind horse. More than one ofhis leaps 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 a memory ofthis trick of a few desperate riders. He even thought of one riderwho had worn off his teeth in this terrible hold to break or controldesperate horses. Wrangle had indeed gone mad. The marvel was whatguided him. Was it the half-brute, the more than half-horse instinct ofJerry Card? Whatever the mystery, it was true. And in a few more rodsJerry would have the sorrel turning into the trail leading down into thecanyon.

  "No--Jerry!" whispered Venters, stepping forward and throwing up therifle. He tried to catch the little humped, frog-like shape over thesights. It was moving too fast; it was too small. Yet Venters shotonce... twice... the third time... four times... five! all wasted shots andprecious seconds!

  With a deep-muttered curse Venters caught Wrangle through the sights andpulled the trigger. Plainly he heard the bullet thud. Wrangle uttereda horrible strangling sound. In swift death action he whirled, andwith one last splendid leap he cleared the canyon rim. And he whirleddownward with the little frog-like shape clinging to his neck!

  There was a pause which seemed never ending, a shock, and an instant'ssilence.

  Then up rolled a heavy crash, a long roar of sliding rocks dying away indistant echo, then silence unbroken.

  Wrangle's race was run.