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“I–got–a rope–on him!” cried Slone, in hoarse pants.

He stared, unbelieving. It was unreal, that sight–unreal like the slow, grinding movement of the avalanche under him. Wildfire’s head seemed a demon head of hate. It reached out, mouth agape, to bite, to rend. That horrible scream could not be the scream of a horse.

Slone was a wild-horse hunter, a rider, and when that second of incredulity flashed by, then came the moment of triumph. No moment could ever equal that one, when he realized he stood there with a rope around that grand stallion’s neck. All the days and the miles and the toil and the endurance and the hopelessness and the hunger were paid for in that moment. His heart seemed too large for his breast.

“I tracked–you!” he cried, savagely. “I stayed–with you! An’ I got a rope–on you! An’–I’ll ride you–you red devil!”

The passion of the man was intense. That endless, racking pursuit had brought out all the hardness the desert had engendered in him. Almost hate, instead of love, spoke in Slone’s words. He hauled on the lasso, pulling the stallion’s head down and down. The action was the lust of capture as well as the rider’s instinctive motive to make the horse fear him. Life was unquenchably wild and strong in that stallion; it showed in the terror which made him hideous. And man and beast somehow resembled each other in that moment which was inimical to noble life.

The avalanche slipped with little jerks, as if treacherously loosing its hold for a long plunge. The line of fire below ate at the bleached grass and the long column of smoke curled away on the wind.

Slone held the taut lasso with his left hand, and with the right he swung the other rope, catching the noose round Wildfire’s nose. Then letting go of the first rope he hauled on the other, pulling the head of the stallion far down. Hand over hand Slone closed in on the horse. He leaped on Wildfire’s head, pressed it down, and, holding it down on the sand with his knees, with swift fingers he tied the nose in a hackamore–an improvised halter. Then, just as swiftly, he bound his scarf tight round Wildfire’s head, blindfolding him.

“All so easy!” exclaimed Slone, under his breath. “Who would believe it! Is it a dream?”

He rose and let the stallion have a free head.

“Wildfire, I got a rope on you–an’ a hackamore–an’ a blinder,” said Slone. “An’ if I had a bridle I’d put that on you. Who’d ever believe you’d catch yourself, draggin’ in the sand?”

Slone, finding himself falling on the sand, grew alive to the augmented movement of the avalanche. It had begun to slide, to heave and bulge and crack. Dust rose in clouds from all around. The sand appeared to open and let him sink to his knees. The rattle of gravel was drowned in a soft roar. Then he shot down swiftly, holding the lassos, keeping himself erect, and riding as if in a boat. He felt the successive steppes of the slope, and then the long incline below, and then the checking and rising and spreading of the avalanche as it slowed down on the level. All movement then was checked violently. He appeared to be half buried in sand. While he struggled to extricate himself the thick dust blew away and, settled so that he could see. Wildfire lay before him, at the edge of the slide, and now he was not so deeply embedded as he had been up on the slope. He was struggling and probably soon would have been able to get out. The line of fire was close now, but Slone did not fear that.

At his shrill whistle Nagger bounded toward him, obedient, but snorting, with ears laid back. He halted. A second whistle started him again. Slone finally dug himself out of the sand, pulled the lassos out, and ran the length of them toward Nagger. The black showed both fear and fight. His eyes rolled and he half shied away.

“Come on!” called Slone, harshly.

He got a hand on the horse, pulled him round, and, mounting in a flash, wound both lassos round the pommel of the saddle.

“Haul him out, Nagger, old boy!” cried Slone, and he dug spurs into the black.

One plunge of Nagger’s slid the stallion out of the sand. Snorting, wild, blinded, Wildfire got up, shaking in every limb. He could not see his enemies. The blowing smoke, right in his nose, made scent impossible. But in the taut lassos he sensed the direction of his captors. He plunged, rearing at the end of the plunge, and struck out viciously with his hoofs. Slone, quick with spur and bridle, swerved Nagger aside and Wildfire, off his balance, went down with a crash. Slone dragged him, stretched him out, pulled him over twice before he got forefeet planted. Once up, he reared again, screeching his rage, striking wildly with his hoofs. Slone wheeled aside and toppled him over again.

“Wildfire, it’s no fair fight,” he called, grimly. “But you led me a chase. An’ you learn right now I’m boss!”