The pursuit lasted only five minutes, but to the stallion it seemed five ages, with the shouting of the man behind him, for while he fled every scar pricked him and once again his bones ached from every blow which the Mexican had struck.

At the end of the five minutes Alcatraz was hopelessly beyond reach and the cowpuncher merely galloped to the highest hilltop to watch the runner.
As far as he could follow the course, that blinding speed was not abated, and the cowpuncher watched with a lump growing in his throat.

He had fallen into a dream of being mounted on a stallion which no horse in the mountains could overtake and which no horse in the mountains could escape.

To be safe in flight, to be inescapable in pursuit--that was, in a small way, to be like a god.
But when Alcatraz disappeared in the horizon haze, the cowpuncher lowered his head with a sigh.

He realized that such a creature was not for him, and he turned his horse's head and plodded back towards the ranchhouse.