It was a sure hit.

In the certainty of his skill Lew Hervey allowed his hand to swing and followed for a strike or two the rhythm of that racing body.

The sunshine of the late afternoon flashed on the flanks and on the frightened eyes of the stallion; mane and tail fluttered straight out with his speed; and then he fired, and jerked up his gun to await the crashing fall of the horse.

But Alcatraz did not drop.

That moment of lingering on the part of the foreman saved him, for through the sights of his rifle Hervey had seen such grace and beauty in horseflesh that his nerve was unsteadied.