Just as suddenly the avalanche stopped again. Slone saw, from the great
oval hole it had left above, that it was indeed deep. That was the
reason it did not slide readily. When the dust cleared away Slone saw
the stallion, sunk to his flanks in the sand, utterly helpless.

With a wild whoop Slone leaped off Nagger, and, a lasso in each hand,
he ran down the long bank. The fire was perhaps a quarter of a mile
distant, and, since the grass was thinning out, it was not coming so
fast as it had been. The position of the stallion was half-way between
the fire and Slone, and a hundred yards up the slope.

Like a madman Slone climbed up through the dragging, loose sand. He was
beside himself with a fury of excitement. He fancied his eyes were
failing him, that it was not possible the great horse really was up
there, helpless in the sand. Yet every huge stride Slone took brought
him closer to a fact he could not deny. In his eagerness he slipped,
and fell, and crawled, and leaped, until he reached the slide which
held Wildfire prisoner.

The stallion might have been fast in quicksand, up to his body, for all
the movement he could make. He could move only his head. He held that
up, his eyes wild, showing the whites, his foaming mouth wide open, his
teeth gleaming. A sound like a scream rent the air. Terrible fear and
hate were expressed in that piercing neigh. And shaggy, wet, dusty red,
with all of brute savageness in the look and action of his head, he
appeared hideous.

As Slone leaped within roping distance the avalanche slipped a foot or
two, halted, slipped once more, and slowly started again with that low
roar. He did not care whether it slipped or stopped. Like a wolf he
leaped closer, whirling his rope. The loop hissed round his head and
whistled as he flung it. And when fiercely he jerked back on the rope,
the noose closed tight round Wildfire's neck.

"By G--d--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