It annoyed him that his hands perspired and trembled and that something
weighty seemed to obstruct his breathing. He muttered that he was pretty much
worn out, not in the best of condition for a hard fight with a wild horse.
Still he would capture Wildfire; his mind was unalterably set there. He
anticipated that the stallion would make a final and desperate rush past him;
and he had his plan of action all outlined. What worried him was the
possibility of Wildfire doing some unforeseen feat at the very last. Slone was
prepared for hours of strained watching, and then a desperate effort, and then
a shock that might kill Wildfire and cripple Nagger, or a long race and fight.
But he soon discovered that he was wrong about the long watch and wait. The
wind had grown strong and was driving the fire swiftly. The flames, fanned by
the breeze, leaped to a formidable barrier. In less than an hour, though the
time seemed only a few moments to the excited Slone, Wildfire had been driven
down toward the narrowing neck of the valley, and he had begun to run, to and
fro, back and forth.
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