That ledge extended in a long
curve, turning slowly away from the precipice, and ascending a little at the
further end. Slone, drew a deep breath of relief when he led Nagger up on
level rock.
Suddenly a strange yet familiar sound halted Slone, as if he had been struck.
The wild, shrill, high-pitched, piercing whistle of a stallion! Nagger neighed
a blast in reply and pounded the rock with his iron-shod hoofs. With a thrill
Slone looked ahead.
There, some few hundred yards distant, on a promontory, stood a red horse.
"My Lord! . . . It's Wildfire!" breathed Slone, tensely.
He could not believe his sight. He imagined he was dreaming. But as Nagger
stamped and snorted defiance Slone looked with fixed and keen gaze, and knew
that beautiful picture was no lie.
Wildfire was as red as fire. His long mane, wild in the wind, was like a
whipping, black-streaked flame. Silhouetted there against that canyon
background he seemed gigantic, a demon horse, ready to plunge into fiery
depths. He was looking back over his shoulder, his head very high, and every
line of him was instinct with wildness.
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