The colts ran with frantic and manful leaps alongside their mothers but the pace was too great and both were left behind in a few moments. The mares whinnied despairingly, broke gait, faltering, to be nipped back into line by sharp teeth on flank and shoulder. One, however, wheeled about and tore back after her baby, and the race passed on. With the whole prairie to circle in, it was almost too good to be true that the dark stallion should make for the box canyon. “But the wise old boy may know a trail out,” Raquel speculated as she pressed her pony closer upon the western flank. Jami had ridden so close that he was swinging his rope over a three-year-old. There, it circled the mustang’s outthrust chest. The stocky, well-trained cowhorse that Jami rode was bracing himself for a full stop as if he were going to throw a steer. But Jami spurred him on and pulled back slowly and surely till the astonished three-year-old was compelled to drop behind while his wild fellows disappeared ahead. Raquel, who was gaining on the race, scarcely took her eyes from the milky, red-spotted flank of the pinto. As she drew in nearer the running horses she could see him plainly. The beautiful throat was swelling, the wild head up, the long, plumy tail raised in defiant flight and streaming on the wind of his speed. “You beauty,” she sang to herself. “Oh, if I can get you I’ll make you love me!” They were at the canyon’s mouth. There was no drawing back now. The chief stallion tore straight ahead. Jami was trying to cut out the stragglers, a two-year-old filly, an old mare, a year-old colt that they would not want; and finally he succeeded in riding between them and the main group, driving them off down the canyon again. It was almost too simple. The wild horse, unlearned in the ways of man, made for his close refuge, and, pressed towards the long runway, saw no other way of escape. He swerved into the trap. Not until the sides of the chute touched his flank did the fleeing leader show terror. He stopped amidst flying clods of earth, trembling violently. His magnificent speed had failed him; he would fight. Rearing on his hind feet he pawed at the barrier of saplings; he used his hoofs like hands, wrenching and pulling with terrible strength and dexterity at the poles that would not break. Then suddenly he leaped almost straight up into the air and clear of them--only to feel a hot stinging circlet (Angel’s reata) close about his throat. The pinto meanwhile had raced straight ahead, followed by three of the band. The gate had been quickly closed and the wild horses raced madly round the corral.