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But at last
he reached the slow rise of jumbled rock that evidently marked the extent of
weathering on that side. Here he turned to the right and rode out into the
valley. The floor was level and thickly overgrown with long, dead grass and
dead greasewood, as dry as tinder. It was easy to account for the dryness;
neither snow nor rain had visited that valley for many months. Slone whipped
one of the sticks in the wind and soon had the smoldering end red and
showering sparks. Then he dropped the stick in the grass, with curious intent
and a strange feeling of regret.
Instantly the grass blazed with a little sputtering roar. Nagger snorted.
"Wildfire!" exclaimed Slone. That word was a favorite one with riders, and now
Slone used it both to call out his menace to the stallion and to express his
feeling for that blaze, already running wild.
Without looking back Slone rode across the valley, dropping a glowing stick
every quarter of a mile. When he reached the other side there were a dozen
fires behind him, burning slowly, with white smoke rising lazily.


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