Alcatraz shot away like a thrown stone. The pursuit
lasted only five minutes, but to the stallion it seemed
five ages, with the shouting of the man behind him,
for while he fled every scar pricked him and once
again his bones ached from every blow which the Mexican
had struck. At the end of the five minutes Alcatraz
was hopelessly beyond reach and the cowpuncher merely
galloped to the highest hilltop to watch the runner.
As far as he could follow the course, that blinding
speed was not abated, and the cowpuncher watched with
a lump growing in his throat. He had fallen into
a dream of being mounted on a stallion which no horse
in the mountains could overtake and which no horse
in the mountains could escape. To be safe in
flight, to be inescapable in pursuit—that
was, in a small way, to be like a god.
But when Alcatraz disappeared in the horizon haze,
the cowpuncher lowered his head with a sigh.
He realized that such a creature was not for him,
and he turned his horse’s head and plodded back
towards the ranchhouse. When he arrived, he told
the first story of the wild red-chestnut, beautiful,
swift as an eagle. He talked with the hunger and
the fire which comes on the faces of those who love
horses. It was not his voice but his manner which
convinced his hearers, and before he ended every eye
in the bunkhouse was lighted.
That moment was the beginning of the end for Alcatraz.
From the moment men saw him and desired him the days
of his freedom were limited; but great should be the
battle before he was subdued!
CHAPTER VII
THE PROMISED LAND
There was no thought of submission in Alcatraz at
this moment, though never for an instant did he under-rate
the power of man. To Alcatraz the Mexican was
the type, and Cordova had seemed to unite in himself
many powers—strength like a herd of bulls,
endurance greater than the contemptible patience of
the burro, speed like the lightning which winks in
the sky one instant and shatters the cottonwood tree
the next. Such as he were men, creatures who
conquer for the sake of conquest and who torment for
the love of pain. His fear equalled his hatred,
and his hatred made him shake with fever.
The horseman had vanished but it was not well to trust
to mere distance. Had he not heard, more than
once, the gun speaking from the hand of Cordova, and
presently the wounded hawk fluttered out of the sky
and dropped at the feet of the man? So Alcatraz
kept on running. Besides, he rejoiced in the
gallop. He was like a boy who leaves his strength
untested for several years and when the crisis comes
finds himself a man. So the red-chestnut marvelled
at the new wells of strength which he was draining
as he ran. That power which the Mexican had kept
at low tide with his systematic brutality was now
developed to the full, very near; and to Alcatraz
it seemed exhaustless. He did not stop to look
about until two miles of climbing up the steep sides
of the Eagles had winded him.
