Jo watched and wished that he would drink a hogs-head. But the moment that he turned and sought the grass Jo spurred his steed. The Pacer heard the hoofs, then saw the running horse, and did not want a nearer view but led away. Across the flat he went down to the south, and kept the famous swinging gait that made his start grow longer. Now through the sandy dunes he went, and steadying to an even pace he gained considerably and Jo's too-laden horse plunged through the sand and sinking fetlock deep, he lost at every bound. Then came a level stretch where the runner seemed to gain, and then a long decline where Jo's horse dared not run his best, so lost again at every step. But on they went, and Jo spared neither spur nor quirt. A mile--a mile--and another mile, and the far-off rock at Arriba loomed up ahead. And there Jo knew fresh mounts were held, and on they dashed. But the night-black mane out level on the breeze ahead was gaining more and more. Arriba Canon reached at last, the watcher stood aside, for it was not wished to turn the race, and the Stallion passed--dashed down, across and up the slope, with that unbroken pace, the only one he knew. And Jo came bounding on his foaming steed, and on the waiting mount, then urged him down the slope and up upon the track, and on the upland once more drove in the spurs, and raced and raced, and raced, but not a single inch he gained. Ga-lump, ga-lump, ga-lump, with measured beat he went--an hour--an hour, and another hour--Arroyo Alamosa just ahead with fresh relays, and Jo yelled at his horse and pushed him on and on. Straight for the place the Black One made, but on the last two miles some strange foreboding turned him to the left, and Jo foresaw escape in this, and pushed his jaded mount at any cost to head him off, and hard as they had raced this was the hardest race of all, with gasps for breath and leather squeaks at every straining bound. Then cutting right across, Jo seemed to gain, and drawing his gun he fired shot after shot to toss the dust, and so turned the Stallion's head and forced him back to take the crossing to the right. Down they went. The Stallion crossed and Jo sprang to the ground. His horse was done, for thirty miles had passed in the last stretch, and Jo himself was worn out. His eyes were burnt with flying alkali dust. He was half blind so he motioned to his 'pard' to "go ahead and keep him straight for Alamosa ford." Out shot the rider on a strong, fresh steed, and away they went--up and down on the rolling plain--the Black Horse flecked with snowy foam. His heaving ribs and noisy breath showed what he felt--but on and on he Went. And Tom on Ginger seemed to gain, then lose and lose, when in an hour the long decline of Alamosa came.