The snow had vanished and the desert was dry and thirsty again. Dust spurted up around the hoofs of the wild horses as they loped down a long ridge. The east was beginning to show a pale flush of red and day came quickly to the barren country, lighting the tall spires and castle rocks and the sharp points of the pinnacles, making the monument valley below appear alive.

The chestnut stallion swung along behind the mares. At their head ran an old roan. She was trailwise and wary. Her nose was leading her unerringly to a big water hole at the base of a cliff. The others pounded along behind her with the colts frisking beside their mothers. The chestnut halted every little while to whirl and sniff the morning air. He held his head high and his protruding eyes rolled as he stared back over the broken country they had left behind.

The roan trotted off the ridge and down through a jumble of rocks to the base of a cliff. The horses nickered softly as they smelled water. The roan’s muzzle was a scant foot from the yellow surface of the pool when wild yells shattered the morning calm. The band whirled and stood with heads up, staring toward a rocky slope. Above them the big chestnut screamed a warning and an order to charge away.

Down the slope toward the water hole galloped four riders. Their naked bodies gleamed copper-red in the new sunlight as they bent low over the necks of their lean ponies. With squeals of fright the band whirled and charged down the canyon. A cloud of yellow dust billowed at their heels. The chestnut stallion crashed down on their flanks with bared teeth and pounding hoofs. When a mare lagged he drove her squealing into the band. The mad charge carried the wild horses away from the four pursuing Navajos, but the trailers did not give up the chase.

Back of the dust cloud Yellow Man rode beside his three sons. Their faces were expressionless; only their black eyes showed the eager excitement that filled them. They did not try to make their gaunt ponies overtake the thundering band but were content to keep a steady pace. The trail left by the wild horses was broad and easy to follow.

Lady Ebony ran ahead of the band, keeping well out in front without effort. She was not badly frightened and the wild panic of the other horses had not gripped her. But she raced along just the same, enjoying the surging flight which gave full play to her powerful muscles. The big chestnut charged in and turned the band up the ridge. As they swept over the top of the rocky hill they saw the Indians galloping along the canyon bed below.

Yellow Man shifted his seat on the bare back of his pinto. His black eyes were following the flight of the black mare, and there was a fierce eagerness in them. The chestnut leader was doing just what he wanted him to do. The big fellow was swinging his band into a wide circle, a curve which would carry them back into the country they had just left.

The band thundered down off the ridge and headed up a sand wash. The drag of the sand and the uphill going slowed them but they kept pounding along, the stallion saw to that. He stayed behind and used his teeth savagely on the rumps of the laggards.

Yellow Man and his sons galloped up the ridge and dropped into the sand wash. A thin smile parted the lips of the tall hunter as he noticed how fagged his horse was. They were chasing no ordinary wild scrub ponies. The chestnut stallion had trained his band well and kept them in fine condition. They had run the legs right out from under the Navajo ponies. He urged his pinto up the sand wash as fast as the little beast could travel.

The chestnut saw the riders coming and noticed that they were working their way to the side as though aiming to come up alongside. He suspected a trick though he was disdainful of the slow-running ponies coming up from below. He changed his course a little to the north. Now the pursuers would have to travel much farther than his band to overtake them. The Navajo riders swung north too, and kept following close to the dust cloud.

The chase thus took a circular course with the chestnut keeping the mares moving as fast as the colts could follow. But now the horses’ sides were heaving, sweat was streaking their flanks and caking in lather-matted ridges above the hair. The big stallion snorted triumphantly as they topped a ridge. They had run away from their pursuers. The Indians were plodding along far behind. He allowed the mares to slow their pace to a lope while he galloped to right and then to left, looking down into washes and canyons for a hiding place.

Suddenly the mares heard yells from their right. They saw five red-bronze riders charging down on them from a cover of junipers. Mounted on fresh horses, these braves came swiftly from their ambush. The chestnut stallion rushed on his band and sent them racing down into a canyon. The retreat led over a ledge and down a rocky hill. The slope was steep and covered with loose stones, but the sure-footed horses took the broken ground at a mad rush. One of the mares slipped and went down, rolling over and over, until she was stopped by a big boulder. She struggled to her feet and staggered around the hill. Her colt bounded after her nickering wildly.

The charge of the hunters carried them close on the heels of the flying band. When the mare went down, two of the hunters swerved and followed her. The chestnut let her go and gave his attention to speeding the rest of the band. In a few seconds the speed of the wild horses carried them ahead of the Navajos’ lean ponies. But the three hunters following the mares kept yelling and galloping.

The two hunters who had swerved to follow the crippled mare and her colt soon overtook them. They paid no attention to the mare but charged down on the colt. One of them swung a rope. The loop sailed out and dropped over the straining neck of the little fellow. The colt fought and kicked, but the Navajo boy knew how to handle a fighter. He kept his rope tight, almost to the choking point, and let the little horse wear himself out. In a short time he had mastered the colt and was heading toward camp with him. His companion galloped away to overtake the band.

The chestnut stallion could not understand the attack of the Navajos. They did not start shooting when they got in close and they did not try to rope any of the mares. They just kept riding on the heels of his fast-tiring band, yelling and waving their arms. They were not like the wolf or the cougar, they did not strike when they got close, but they never left the heels of the herd. The big stallion shifted his course and again they began moving in a wide circle.

This time the chestnut widened the circle, cutting back into the steep hill country, turning up crooked washes, crossing ridges, and doubling back occasionally. The Navajos stayed on the trail, keeping as close to the band as they could, cutting across when they sighted the mares doubling on their course. And now they were hanging close on the heels of the wild ones. Twice the chestnut stallion whirled and faced the hunters as though about to challenge them to a fight. The braves slid their hands down to where their guns hung about their naked waists. They did not wish to kill the big stallion unless he charged their ponies, nor did they care to try taming him. They wanted the black mare and the colts.

The chestnut did not charge his tormentors. Fear of man and man’s far-killing gun sent him back to biting and shoving the mares into faster flight. He could not use the tactics which always succeeded against the wolf or the bear.

Topping another ridge, he headed his band into a deep canyon. He knew they were almost winded from running uphill. The steep slope would help them to recover. One of the Navajos shouted:

“He is doubling back! Head him!”

The Indians sent their ponies charging recklessly down the dangerous slope, leaping over boulders and water-gutted ditches. But the band would not be headed. Going downhill had eased them and given them new life. They plunged along with sides heaving and nostrils flaring. Lady Ebony led them, keeping her pace down to their speed.

One of the hunters headed his pony up out of the canyon. He halted on a jutting rock and sat looking down over the desert. His black eyes watched the fine spirals of yellow dust rising from the canyon and he nodded his head. The scattered groups of hunters would be able to locate the new direction the band had taken.

The sharp eyes of three hunters hiding in a juniper grove on the rim of the canyon saw the spirals of dust rising from the dry watercourse above. They slipped across and waited.

The chestnut began to breathe easier. Once again the band had outdistanced their pursuers and no raiders could be seen. But he was nervous and determined to keep the mares moving until they were deep in the rough, canyon-slotted country to the south. The weary horses slowed their pace to a trot. They were suffering for water and their hard muscles were crying for rest. They were used to sudden, wild charges when they would race at top speed for a while, but they were not used to a steady grind, hour after hour.

Several of the mares began weaving away from the herd, sniffing for water, looking for a spot where they could halt and rest. Suddenly the yells they had come to dread broke the silence and echoed along the canyon walls. Three riders came charging toward them from below. The chestnut screamed a warning. For a moment he hesitated. There was an enemy pack behind them, and now one faced them. With a snort and a toss of his head he sent the band up the far slope out of the canyon. The hunters raced whooping and yelling after the mares.

Escape from the canyon did not bring freedom from the worrying red riders. The desert seemed full of them. After every run, when the big stallion thought he had slipped away from his pursuers, a new and fresh band would charge from cover on the jaded mares. In desperation the big horse headed down a deep canyon. The mares could not travel uphill any more. They could not move fast but the hunters did not seem anxious to close in and strike. They kept on the heels of the wild ones. Now there were a dozen of them and they kept up a savage yelling as they stayed close to the band.

Up ahead Lady Ebony began to tire. She was not driven by frantic fear and she was eager to stop and rest. At first she had enjoyed the flight, but now she was thirsty and her sides were heaving. She galloped ahead, leaving the band behind. As she raced along she saw a side canyon. Its floor was solid rock, worn smooth by wind and water. She slipped into the narrow opening and halted behind a shoulder of rock. She lowered her head and stood blowing hard. She had left no tracks on the rocky floor.

The wild horses galloped past the mouth of the side canyon. A great cloud of dust rolled up after them. Lady Ebony heard the Navajos go whooping past. She stood listening until the pounding of hoofs and the yelling died away. Shaking her head, she trotted up the narrow canyon. She craved water and she wanted to be alone, to lie down and rest. She headed north because to the north lay the tall-grass meadows with clear streams bubbling across them. She moved along steadily, keeping to the bottom of the canyon where she was hidden from sight of any black-eyed hunter who might be sitting on a rim high above.

A black rain cloud billowed up above the rims to the north. It rolled down across the desert on the wings of a driving wind which raised clouds of dust and sand. At dusk it swept over the canyon where Lady Ebony was marching along steadily north. It drenched her and gave her needed drinking water, then it moved on down to where the chestnut was making his last stand.

In the canyon the big stallion had settled down to the grim job of lashing his mares into movement. They were not able to go fast but he kept them pounding along, just ahead of the yelling hunters. Their gaunt bellies were drawn and their dry nostrils flared red inside their dust-caked rims. The Navajos were shouting to one another, their spirits high. They were sure of their catch now and eager to close in as soon as the mares quit.

Then the dusk of evening came and with it the downpour of rain. Nowhere in the world outside the tropics can so much water fall in so short a time as in the desert. The storm was bad luck for the hunters, but it spelled escape for the wild horses. It blotted out everything, bringing sudden, inky night. Its rushing, swirling waters wiped out the tracks of the horses. The chestnut stallion played wise. He took a side canyon, forcing his charges out on a rocky ridge. From that canyon they crossed another ridge and turned north. The big stallion was headed out of the desert.

The hunters spread out and worked up and down the canyon but the darkness and rain defeated them. They finally gave up and turned their ponies toward their camp.

All that night Lady Ebony kept moving. The storm passed and the moon came out with stars beyond it, stars that hung low over the barren country, brilliant with red and blue lights winking outside white centers.

A pair of gray wolves flashed past like shadows. They leaped along, side by side, shoulder to shoulder. One was a big, broad-chested fellow with a wide muzzle and frost-cropped ears. The other was a slim gray one with slender legs and body. They paid no attention to Lady Ebony. They were not hunting, they were running, answering the call of spring, heading for a trysting place on a barren ridge.

Lady Ebony heard them holding their spring concert on a high knoll. They howled and snarled and yelped. There was much yearning, much that sounded like deep laughter in their song, and there was tenderness in the notes of the slim gray one. In their mating time they had lost the savagery of winter. There was no specter of famine in the springtime, no blasting blizzards, no deep snow. There was food and there was an urge to find a snug den.

Something of the feelings expressed by the gray wolves filled Lady Ebony. Just before dawn she halted and began feeding. She fed on through the morning. She saw no other horses and heard no savage yells. At midday she lay down and rested until late afternoon.

When she moved on she headed north, toward the snowy ramparts of the Crazy Kill Range, and she went at a long, ground-devouring lope. That night she halted at a spring in the lower foothills. Berrybushes and willow grew around the spring and there was tall grass. Lady Ebony pulled the juicy grass contentedly. She was glad to be away from the teeth and smashing hoofs of the chestnut stallion. She did not miss the herd at all.

The spring was so much of a change after the parched desert that she bedded down close beside it and rested until morning. With the gray dawn she was up and feeding on the lush grass. For several hours she fed, then she drank deeply and faced northward. Again she set her pace at a fast lope.