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There was another short silence, which presently Bill opened his lips to break.

“Lin, it makes me sick to quit. I ain’t denyin’ thet for a long time I’ve had hopes of ketchin’ Wildfire. He’s the grandest hoss I ever laid eyes on. I reckon no man, onless he was an Arab, ever seen as good a one. But now thet’s neither here nor there. . . . We’ve got to hit the back trail.”

“Boys, I reckon I’ll stick to Wildfire’s tracks,” said Lin, in the same quiet tone.

Bill swore at him, and the other hunter grew excited and concerned.

“Lin Slone, are you gone plumb crazy over thet red hoss?”

“I–reckon,” replied Slone. The working of his throat as he swallowed could be plainly seen by his companions.

Bill looked at his ally as if to confirm some sudden understanding between them. They took Slone’s attitude gravely and they wagged their heads doubtfully. . . . It was significant of the nature of riders that they accepted his attitude and had consideration for his feelings. For them the situation subtly changed. For weeks they had been three wild-horse wranglers on a hard chase after a valuable stallion. They had failed to get even close to him. They had gone to the limit of their endurance and of the outfit, and it was time to turn back. But Slone had conceived that strange and rare longing for a horse–a passion understood, if not shared, by all riders. And they knew that he would catch Wildfire or die in the attempt. From that moment their attitude toward Slone changed as subtly as had come the knowledge of his feeling. The gravity and gloom left their faces. It seemed they might have regretted what they had said about the futility of catching Wildfire. They did not want Slone to see or feel the hopelessness of his task.

“I tell you, Lin,” said Bill, “your hoss Nagger’s as good as when we started.”

“Aw, he’s better,” vouchsafed the other rider. “Nagger needed to lose some weight. Lin, have you got an extra set of shoes for him?”

“No full set. Only three left,” replied Lin, soberly.

“Wal, thet’s enough. You can keep Nagger shod. An’ mebbe thet red stallion will get sore feet an’ go lame. Then you’d stand a chance.”

“But Wildfire keeps travelin’ the valleys–the soft ground,” said Slone.

“No matter. He’s leavin’ the country, an’ he’s bound to strike sandstone sooner or later. Then, by gosh! mebbe he’ll wear off them hoofs.”

“Say, can’t he ring bells offen the rocks?” exclaimed Bill.

“Boys, do you think he’s leavin’ the country?” inquired Slone, anxiously.

“Sure he is,” replied Bill. “He ain’t the first stallion I’ve chased off the Sevier range. An’ I know. It’s a stallion thet makes for new country, when you push him hard.”

“Yep, Lin, he’s sure leavin’,” added the other comrade. “Why, he’s traveled a bee line for days! I’ll bet he’s seen us many a time. Wildfire’s about as smart as any man. He was born wild, an’ his dam was born wild, an’ there you have it. The wildest of all wild creatures–a wild stallion, with the intelligence of a man! A grand hoss, Lin, but one thet has killed stallions all over the Sevier range. A wild stallion thet’s a killer! I never liked him for thet. Could he be broke?”

“I’ll break him,” said Lin Slone, grimly. “It’s gettin’ him thet’s the job. I’ve got patience to break a hoss. But patience can’t catch a streak of lightnin’.”

“Nope; you’re right,” replied Bill. “If you have some luck you’ll get him–mebbe. If he wears out his feet, or if you crowd him into a narrow canyon, or run him into a bad place where he can’t get by you. Thet might happen. An’ then, with Nagger, you stand a chance. Did you ever tire thet hoss?”

“Not yet.”

“An’ how fur did you ever run him without a break? Why, when we ketched thet sorrel last year I rode Nagger myself–thirty miles, most at a hard gallop. An’ he never turned a hair!”