Lew Hervey's lightest word had a weight with them.
However, before and behind the leader of the herd their guns did deadly work.

Brood mares, stallions young and old, even the foals were dropped.
It was horrible work to the hardest of them but this horseflesh was useless.

Too many times they had seen mustangs taken and ridden and when they were not hopeless outlaws they became broken-spirited and useless, as though their strength lay in their freedom.

With that gone they were valueless even as slaves of men.
Before the slaughter ended, young or old there was not a horse left in the band of Alcatraz save the grey mare far ahead.

She was already beyond range, and as the last of the fleeing horses pitched heavily forward and lay still with oddly sprawling limbs, old Bud Seymour drew rein and shoved his rifle back into the long holster.
"Now, look!" he called, as his companions pulled up beside him.