Back and forth at the upper end the White Mustang worked; then rendered desperate by the closing in, he circled round nearer to me.

Fire shone in his wild eyes.

The wily Jones was not to be outwitted; he kept in the middle, always on the move, and he yelled to me to open up.
I lost my voice again, and fired my last shot.

Then the White Mustang burst into a dash of daring, despairing speed.

It was his last magnificent effort.