odor, and filled his ears with a hollow, rushing roar.
Then for the hundredth time he measured the width of space

separating him from Jerry Card. Wrangle had ceased to gain. The
blacks were proving their fleetness. Venters watched Jerry Card,

admiring the little rider's horsemanship. He had the incomparable
seat of the upland rider, born in the saddle. It struck Venters

that Card had changed his position, or the position of the
horses. Presently Venters remembered positively that Jerry had

been leading Night on the right-hand side of the trail. The racer
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.
Another clearer, keener gaze assured Venters that Black Star was

really riderless. Night now carried Jerry Card.
"He's changed from one to the other!" ejaculated Venters,

realizing the astounding feat with unstinted admiration. "Changed
at full speed! Jerry Card, that's what you've done unless I'm

drunk on the smell of sage. But I've got to see the trick before
I believe it."

Thenceforth, while Wrangle sped on, Venters glued his eyes to the
little rider. Jerry Card rode as only he could ride. Of all the

daring horsemen of the uplands, Jerry was the one rider fitted to
bring out the greatness 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 he glanced backward, as a wise general in

retreat calculating his chances and the power and speed of
pursuers, and the moment for the last desperate burst. No doubt,

Card, with his life at stake, gloried in that race, perhaps more
wildly than Venters. For he had been born to the sage and the

saddle and the wild. He was more than half horse. Not until the
last call--the sudden up-flashing instinct of

self-preservation--would he 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 was actually thinking of his
horses, husbanding their speed, handling them with knowledge of

years, glorying in their beautiful, swift, racing stride, and
wanting them to win the race when his own life hung suspended in

quivering balance. Again Jerry whirled in his saddle and the sun
flashed red on his face. Turning, he drew Black Star closer and

closer toward Night, till they ran side by side, as one horse.
Then Card raised himself in the saddle, slipped out of the

stirrups, and, somehow twisting himself, leaped upon Black Star.
He did not even lose the swing of the horse. Like a leech he was

there in the other saddle, and as the horses separated, his right
foot, that had been apparently doubled under him, shot down to

catch the stirrup. The grace and dexterity and daring of that
rider's act won something more than admiration from Venters. For

the distance of a mile Jerry rode Black Star and then changed
back to Night. But all Jerry's skill and the running of the

blacks could avail little more against the sorrel.
Venters peered far ahead, studying the lay of the land.

Straightaway for five miles the trail stretched, and then it
disappeared in hummocky ground. 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 gleamed the red of the

opposite wall. Venters imagined that the trail went down into the
Pass somewhere north of those ridges. And he realized that he

must and would overtake Jerry Card in this straight course of
five miles.

Cruelly he struck his spurs into Wrangle's flanks. A light touch
of spur was sufficient to make Wrangle plunge. And now, with a

ringing, wild snort, he seemed to double up in muscular
convulsions and to shoot forward with an impetus that almost

unseated Venters. The sage blurred by, 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 showed he had to make
his last desperaterunning. Venters aimed to the side of the

trail and sent a bullet puffing the dust beyond Jerry. Venters
hoped to frighten the rider and get him to take to the sage. But

Jerry returned the shot, and his ball struck dangerously close in
the dust at Wrangle's flying feet. Venters held his fire then,

while the rider emptied his revolver. For a mile, with Black Star
leaving Night behind and doing his utmost, Wrangle did not gain;

for another mile he gained little, if at all. In the third he
caught up with the now galloping Night and began to gain rapidly

on the other black.
Only a hundred yards now stretched between Black Star and

Wrangle. The giant sorrel thundered on--and on--and on. In every
yard he gained a foot. He was whistling through his nostrils,

wringing wet, flying lather, and as hot as fire. Savage as ever,
strong as ever, fast as ever, but each tremendousstride jarred

Venters out of the saddle! Wrangle's power and spirit and
momentum had begun to run him off his legs. Wrangle's great race

was nearly won--and run. Venters seemed to see the expanse before
him as a vast, sheeted, purple plain sliding under him. Black

Star moved in it as a blur. The rider, Jerry Card, appeared a
mere dot bobbing dimly. Wrangle thundered on--on--on! Venters

felt the increase in quivering, straining shock after every leap.
Flecks of foam flew into Venters's eyes, burning him, making him

see all the sage as red. But in that red haze he saw, or seemed
to see, Black Star suddenly riderless and with broken gait.

Wrangle thundered on to change his pace with a violent break.
Then Venters pulled him hard. From run to gallop, gallop to

canter, canter to trot, trot to walk, and walk to stop, the great
sorrel ended his race.

Venters looked back. Black Star stood riderless in the trail.
Jerry Card had taken to the sage. Far up the white trail Night

came trotting faithfully 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, and for him Venters had no
fears.

As Venters ran back to Black Star he saw the horse stagger on
shaking legs into the sage and go down in a heap. Upon reaching

him Venters removed the saddle and bridle. Black Star had been
killed on his legs, Venters thought. He had no hope for the

stricken horse. Black Star lay flat, covered with bloody froth,
mouth wide, tongue hanging, eyes glaring, and all his beautiful

body in convulsions.
Unable to stay there to see Jane's favorite racer die, Venters

hurried up the trail to meet the other black. On the way he kept
a sharp lookout for Jerry Card. Venters imagined the rider would

keep well out of range of 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 back one 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 loose to rest.
Night wearily lay down in the dust and rolled, proving himself

not yet spent.
Then Venters sat down to rest and think. Whatever the risk, he

was compelled to stay where he was, or comparatively near, for
the night. The horses must rest and drink. He must find water. He

was now seventy miles from Cottonwoods, and, he believed, close
to the canyon where the cattle trail must surely turn off and go

down into the Pass. After a while he rose to survey the valley.
He was very near to the ragged edge of a deep canyon into which