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.