Holley thought of his gun; Bostil thought of the splendid horse. The
thoughts were characteristic of these riders. The other men, however,
recovering from a horror-broken silence, burst out in acclaim of
Slone's feat.

"Dick Sears's finish! Roped by a boy rider!" exclaimed Cal Blinn,
fervidly.

"Bostil, that rider is worthy of his horse," said Wetherby. "I think
Sears would have bored you. I saw his finger pressing--pressing on the
trigger. Men like Sears can't help but pull at that stage."

"Thet was the quickest trick I ever seen," declared Macomber.

They watched Wildfire run down the slope, out into the valley, with a
streak of rising dust out behind. They all saw when there ceased to be
that peculiar rising of dust. Wildfire appeared to shoot ahead at
greater speed. Then he slowed up. The rider turned him and faced back
toward the group, coming at a stiff gallop. Soon Wildfire breasted the
slope, and halted, snorting, shaking before the men. The lasso was
still trailing out behind, limp and sagging. There was no weight upon
it now.

Bostil strode slowly ahead. He sympathized with the tension that held
Slone; he knew why the rider's face was gray, why his lips only moved
mutely, why there was horror in the dark, strained eyes, why the lean,
strong hands, slowly taking up the lasso, now shook like leaves in the
wind.

There was only dust on the lasso. But Bostil knew--they all knew that
none the less it had dealt a terrible death to the horse-thief.

Somehow Bostil could not find words for what he wanted to say. He put a
hand on the red stallion--patted his shoulder. Then he gripped Slone
close and hard. He was thinking how he would have gloried in a son like
this young, wild rider. Then he again faced his comrades.

"Fellers, do you think Cordts was in on thet trick?" he queried.

"Nope. Cordts was on the square," replied Holley. "But he must have
seen it comin' an' left Sears to his fate. It sure was a fittin' last
ride for a hoss-thief."

Bostil sent Holley and Farlane on ahead to find Cordts and Hutchinson,
with their comrades, to tell them the fate of Sears, and to warn them
to leave before the news got to the riders.

The sun was setting golden and red over the broken battlements of the
canyons to the west. The heat of the day blew away on a breeze that
bent the tips of the sage-brush. A wild song drifted back from the
riders to the fore. And the procession of Indians moved along, their
gay trappi