Alcatraz

THE CRISIS

When he found a place where he could jump the Little Smoky he picked up his mares again and led them straight north, accepting their whinnies of congratulation with a careless toss of his head as though only women-folk would bother to think of such small matters.  He had a definite purpose, now.  He had had enough of the Valley of the Eagles with its haunting lobos and its cunning human hunters.  And he chose for exit the cañon of the Little Smoky itself.  For there were many blind ravines pocketing the sides of the Valley of the Eagles, but the little Smoky would lead him straight to the summits.  He looked back as he reached the mouth of the gorge, filled with the murmur of the rain-swollen waters.  Perris was drifting towards them.  And Alcatraz tossed his head and struck into a canter.

It was a precaution which he never abandoned, for while the Great Enemy was most to be feared, there were other human foes and such a narrow-throated gorge as this would ideally serve them as a trap.  He shortened his lope so as to be ready to whirl away as he came to the first winding between the rugged walls of the valley—­but the ground was clear before him and calling up his lagging herd, he made on towards a sound of falling water ahead.  It was a new sound to Alcatraz in that place, for he remembered no cataract in this gorge.  But every water-course had been greatly changed since the rains began, and who could tell what alterations had occurred here?

Who, indeed, could have guessed it?  For as he swung about the next bend he was confronted by a sheer wall of rock over which the falling torrent of the Little Smoky was churned to white spray by projecting fragments.  Far above, the side of the mountain was still marked by a raw wound where the landslide had swept, cutting deeper and deeper, until it choked the narrow ravine with an incalculable mass of sand, crushed trees, and a rubble of broken stone.  It had dammed the Little Smoky, but soon topping the obstruction, the river now poured over the crest and filled the valley with a noise of rushing and shouting so caught up by echoes that Alcatraz seemed to be standing inside a whole circle of invisible waterfalls.

He wondered at that sight for only an instant; then, as the meaning drove home to him, he wheeled and raced down the valley.  This was the explanation of the Enemy’s move towards the throat of the cañon!

He passed the mares like a red streak of light, his ears flagging back and his tail swept out straight behind by the wind of his gallop.  He rushed about the next turn of the cliff and saw that the race had been in vain—­the Great Enemy was spurring his reeling cowpony into the mouth of the Little Smoky gap!

The chestnut made his calculations without slackening his pace.  The man was in the valley, but he had not yet reached that narrow throat where his lariat was of sufficient radius to cover the space between the wall of the cañon and the stream.  However, he was in excellent position to maneuver for a throw in case Alcatraz tried to slip by.  Therefore he now brought his pony to a slow lope, and loosening his rope, he swung the noose in a wide circle; he was ready to plunge to either side and cast the lariat.

Being nearer to the river than to the cañon wall it was in the latter direction that the stallion found the wider free space and towards it, accordingly, he directed his flight, running as he had only run when the lofer wolf dogged his heels.  It was only a feint.  His eye was too keen in the calculation of distances and relative speeds not to realize that the cowpony would beat him to the goal, yet he kept up his furious pace even when Perris had checked his horse to a trot.  Straight on swept Alcatraz until he saw the glitter of the hunter’s eyes beneath the wide brim of his sombrero—­then he braced his legs, knocking up a small shower of sand and rocks, swerved to the left, and bolted for the river bank.

Even as he made the move, though blinded by the fierceness of his own effort, he knew that it would be a tight squeeze.  Had the pony under Perris possessed half of its ordinary speed of foot it would easily have headed the fugitive or at the least brought its rider in rope-throw, now, outworn by the long trail it had followed, the little animal stumbled and almost fell when Perris with iron hand swung it around.  That blunder lost fatal yards, but still it did its honest best.  It was a veteran of many a round-up.  No pony in the arduous work of cutting out was surer of eye or quicker of foot, and now this dodging back and forth brought a gleam into the bronco’s eyes.  There was no need of the goading spur of Perris to make it spring forth at full speed, running on nerve-power in place of the sapped strength of muscle.

The stumble had given Alcatraz a fighting chance for his freedom—­that was all.  He recognized the flying peril as he raced in a wide loping semicircle.  If the river were twenty yards further off he, running two feet to the cowpony’s one, would brush through safely, but as it was no one could tell.  He knew the reach of a lariat as well as a man; had not Cordova tormented him devilishly with one time and again?  Estimating the speed of his approaching enemy and the reach of the rope he felt that he could still gain freedom—­unless luck was against him.

The burst of Alcatraz for the river and safety was a remarkable explosion of energy.  Out of the corner of his reddening eye, as he gained swift impetus after his swerve, he saw the cowpony wheel, falter, and then burst across in pursuit to close the gap.  He heeled over to the left, and found a mysterious source of energy within him that enabled his speed to be increased, until, at the top of his racing gait, he reached the very verge of the stream.  There remained nothing now but a straight dash for freedom.

Luck favored him in one respect at least.  The swollen current of the Little Smoky had eaten away its banks so that there was a sheer drop, straight as a cliff in most places, to the water, and the cliff-edge above was solidly compacted sand and gravel.  A better race-track could hardly have been asked and the heart of Alcatraz swelled with hope as he saw the ground spin back behind him.  Red Perris, too, shouting like a mad man as he spurred in, realized that his opportunity was slipping through his fingers.  For now, though far away, he swung his rope in a stiffly horizontal circle about his head.  The time had come.  Straight before him shot the red streak of the stallion; and leaning in his saddle to give greater length to the cast he made the throw.

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.