rals. An' we believe he can go
without water fer two weeks, unless mebbe he hes a secret hole we've
never trailed him to."

"Would we have any chance to see this White Mustang and his band?"
questioned Jones.

"See him? Why, thet'd be easy. Go down Snake Gulch, camp at Singin'
Cliffs, go over into Nail Canyon, an' wait. Then send some one slippin'
down to the water-hole at Kanab Canyon, an' when the band cums in to
drink--which I reckon will be in a few days now--hev them drive the
mustangs up. Only be sure to hev them get ahead of the White Mustang,
so he'll hev only one way to cum, fer he sure is knowin'. He never
makes a mistake. Mebbe you'll get to see him cum by like a white
streak. Why, I've heerd thet mustang's hoofs ring like bells on the
rocks a mile away. His hoofs are harder'n any iron shoe as was ever
made. But even if you don't get to see him, Snake Gulch is worth
seein'."

I learned later from Stewart that the White Mustang was a beautiful
stallion of the wildest strain of mustang blue blood. He had roamed the
long reaches between the Grand Canyon and Buckskin toward its southern
slope for years; he had been the most sought-for horse by all the
wranglers, and had become so shy and experienced that nothing but a
glimpse was ever obtained of him. A singular fact was that he never
attached any of his own species to his band, unless they were coal
black. He had been known to fight and kill other stallions, but he kept
out of the well-wooded and watered country frequented by other bands,
and ranged the brakes of the Siwash as far as he could range. The usual
method, indeed the only successful way to capture wild horses, was to
build corrals round the waterholes. The wranglers lay out night after
night watching. When the mustangs came to drink--which was always after
dark--the gates would be closed on them. But the trick had never even
been tried on the White Mustang, for the simple reason that he never
approached one of these traps.

"Boys," said Jones, "seeing we need breaking in, we'll give the White
Mustang a little run."

This was most pleasurable news, for the wild horses fascinated me.
Besides, I saw from the expression on our leader's face that an
uncapturable mustang was an object of interest for him.

Wallace and I had employed the last few warm sunny afternoons in riding
up and down the valley, below Oak, where there was a fine, level
stretch. Here I wore out my soreness of muscle, and gradual