A man on a tall gray, with the legs of speed and plenty of girth at the cinches, where girth means lung power, twisted out of a side trail and swung past El Sangre at a fast gallop. The blood-bay snorted and came hard against the bit in a desire to follow. On the range, when he led his wild band, no horse had ever passed El Sangre and hardly the voice of the master could keep him back now. Terry loosed him. He did not break into a gallop, but fled down the road like an arrow, and the gray came back to him slowly and surely until the rider twisted around and swore in surprise. He touched his mount with the spurs; there was a fresh start from the gray, a lunge that kicked a little spurt of dust into the nostrils of El Sangre. He snorted it out. Terry released his head completely, and now, as though in scorn refusing to break into his sweeping gallop, El Sangre flung himself ahead to the full of his natural pace. And the gray came back steadily. The town was shoving up at them at the end of the road more and more clearly. The rider of the gray began to curse. He was leaning forward, jockeying his horse, but still El Sangre hurled himself forward powerfully, smoothly. They passed the first shanty on the outskirts of the town with the red head of the stallion at the hip of the other. Before they straightened into the main street, El Sangre had shoved his nose past the outstretched head of the gray. Then the other rider jerked back on his reins with a resounding oath. Terry imitated; one call to El Sangre brought him back to a gentle amble. "Going to sell this damned skate," declared the stranger, a lean-faced man of middle age with big, patient, kindly eyes. "If he can't make another hoss break out of a pace, he ain't worth keeping! But I'll tell a man that you got quite a hoss there, partner!" "Not bad," admitted Terry modestly. "And the gray has pretty good points, it seems to me." They drew the horses back to a walk. "Ought to have. Been breeding for him fifteen years--and here I get him beat by a hoss that don't break out of a pace." He swore again, but less violently and with less disappointment. He was beginning to run his eyes appreciatively over the superb lines of El Sangre. There were horses and horses, and he began to see that this was one in a thousand--or more. "What's the strain in that stallion?" he asked. "Mustang," answered Terry. "Mustang? Man, man, he's close to sixteen hands!" "Nearer fifteen three. Yes, he stands pretty high. Might call him a freak mustang, I guess. He reverts to the old source stock." "I've heard something about that," nodded the other. "Once in a generation they say a mustang turns up somewhere on the range that breeds back to the old Arab. And that red hoss is sure one of 'em." They dismounted at the hotel, the common hitching rack for the town, and the elder man held out his hand. "I'm Jack Baldwin." "Terry'll do for me, Mr. Baldwin. Glad to know you."