It failed. Even as the noose whirled above him
Alcatraz knew the cast would fall short. An instant
later, falling, it slapped against his shoulder and
he was through the gap free! But at the contact
of that dreaded lariat instinct forced him to do what
reason told him was unneeded—he veered
some vital inches off towards the edge of the bank.
Thereby his triumph was undone! The gravel which
made so good a footing was, after all, a brittle support
and now, under his pounding hoofs, the whole side
of the bank gave way. A squeal of terror broke
from Alcatraz. He swerved sharply in, but it was
too late. The very effort to change direction
brought a greater weight upon his rear hoofs and now
they crushed down through flying gravel and sand.
He faced straight in, pawing the yielding bank with
his forehoofs and suspended over the roar of the torrent.
It was like striving to climb a hill of quicksand.
The greater his struggle the more swiftly the treacherous
soil melted under his pounding hoofs.
Last of all, he heard a yell of horror from the Great
Enemy and saw the hands of the man go up before his
eyes to shut out the sight. Then Alcatraz pitched
back into thin air.
He caught one glimpse of the wildly blowing storm-clouds
above him, then he crashed with stinging force into
the water below.
CHAPTER XXV
THE LITTLE SMOKY
Pure madness poured into the brain of Red Perris as
he saw the fall. Here, then was the end of the
trail, and that great battle would never be fought.
Groaning he rode to the bank of the stream, mechanically
gathering up the rope as he went.
He saw below him nothing but the rush of water, white
riffles showing its speed. An occasional dark
steak whirled past—the trunks of trees
which the Little Smoky had chewed away from their foothold
on its sides. Doubtless one of these burly missiles
had struck and instantly killed the stallion.
But no, yonder his head broke above the surface—a
great log flung past him, missing the goal by inches—a
whirl in the current rolled him under,—but
up he came again, swimming gallantly. The selfish
rage which had consumed Red Perris broke out in words.
Down the bank he trotted the buckskin, shaking his
fist at Alcatraz and pouring the stream of his curses
at that devoted head. Was this the reward of
labor, the reward of pain and patience through all
the weeks, the sleepless nights, the weary days?
“Drown, and be damned!” shouted Red Perris,
and as if in answer, the body of the stallion rose
miraculously from the stream and the hunter gasped
his incredulity. Alcatraz was facing up stream,
half his body above the surface.
