Jones, and his voice, powerful with a note of
triumph, bespoke the knell of the king's freedom.

The trap closed in. Back and forth at the upper end the White Mustang
worked; then rendered desperate by the closing in, he circled round
nearer to me. Fire shone in his wild eyes. The wily Jones was not to be
outwitted; he kept in the middle, always on the move, and he yelled to
me to open up.

I lost my voice again, and fired my last shot. Then the White Mustang
burst into a dash of daring, despairing speed. It was his last
magnificent effort. Straight for the wash at the upper end he pointed
his racy, spirited head, and his white legs stretched far apart,
twinkled and stretched again. Jones galloped to cut him off, and the
yells he emitted were demoniacal. It was a long, straight race for the
mustang, a short curve for the bay.

That the white stallion gained was as sure as his resolve to elude
capture, and he never swerved a foot from his course. Jones might have
headed him, but manifestly he wanted to ride with him, as well as to
meet him, so in case the lasso went true, a terrible shock might be
averted.

Up went Jones's arm as the space shortened, and the lasso ringed his
head. Out it shot, lengthened like a yellow, striking snake, and fell
just short of the flying white tail.

The White Mustang, fulfilling his purpose in a last heroic display of
power, sailed into the air, up and up, and over the wide wash like a
white streak. Free! the dust rolled in a cloud from under his hoofs,
and he vanished.

Jones's superb horse, crashing down on his haunches, just escaped
sliding into the hole.

I awoke to the realization that Satan had carried me, in pursuit of the
thrilling chase, all the way across the circle without my knowing it.

Jones calmly wiped the sweat from his face, calmly coiled his lasso,
and calmly remarked:

"In trying to capture wild animals a man must never be too sure. Now
what I thought my strong point was my weak point--the wash. I made sure
no horse could ever jump that hole."

CHAPTER 8.

SNAKE GULCH

Not far from the scene of our adventure with the White Streak as we
facetious and appreciatively named the mustang, deep, flat cave
indented the canyon wall. By reason of its sandy floor and close
proximity to Frank's trickling spring, we decided to camp in it. About
dawn Lawson and Stewart straggled in on spent horse and found awaiting
them a bright fire, a hot supper and cheery comr