The grip was like that of Damascus steel, and when the Shawanoe drew upward and held the hoof against the body of the horse, almost touching the upper part of the leg, because of the abruptness of the bend at the knee, it was as if the foot was imprisoned in a vise. The stallion, in his blind struggles, went forward on one shoulder and rolled over. Deerfoot was off again, and, letting the scared brute clamber to his feet, vaulted upon his back as before. By this time the stallion was panic-smitten. Sweat was beginning to show, and his satin coat gleamed with new luster. Finding himself once more on his feet, he uttered another wild whinny and burst away over the prairie like a thunderbolt. It is not likely that he recalled the drove of which he was leader. If he did, he must have been angered by their base desertion of him, for he headed straight westward, and, when last seen by our friends, was running at his highest bent toward the snow-clad mountain, with the Shawanoe firmly seated on his back. George Shelton kept the glass to his eye till the two became a flickering speck in the distance and then vanished. Deerfoot was well satisfied with the way things had gone and were still going. He had “cut out” the stallion from his herd, had mastered him in the furious fight, and, to complete the conquest, it was necessary still further to subdue him; that could be done only by allowing or compelling the brute to exhaust himself. The fight recalled his conquest years before of Thunderbolt, also a black stallion, on the other side of the Mississippi. The heart of the Shawanoe glowed with admiration and pride in the magnificent creature whom he had resolved to capture and subdue. Never had he bestrode so matchless a steed, nor one with a more beautiful stride, as he flew westward like the wind. Could he be made a prize he would be worth a prince’s ransom. Deerfoot therefore complacently waited for the stallion to tire himself out. It looked as if he would never do so, but there is a limit to the capacity of every animal. Mile after mile was swept under those rhythmic hoofs with no apparent slackening, but by and by the watchful youth noted a lagging of the gait. The pace was beginning to tell. Waiting until the slowing became more marked, Deerfoot struck his heels against the ribs, slapped the sweaty neck and emitted a series of striking war-whoops. The stallion was off again as if fired from the throat of a columbiad, and maintained the pace for fifteen or twenty minutes, when he began falling away. The rider kicked, slapped and shouted, and the horse responded with another burst, which made the air whistle in a gale past the ears of the rider. The brute was reeking with sweat, but he struggled gallantly. He had flung many miles behind him and was good for many more.