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The slope above was endless and grew steeper, more difficult toward the
top. Slone knew absolutely that no horse could climb over it. He grew
apprehensive, however, for Wildfire might stick up there on the slope until
the line of fire passed. The horse apparently shunned any near proximity to
the fire, and performed prodigious efforts to escape.
"He'll be ridin' an avalanche pretty soon," muttered Slone.
Long sheets of sand and gravel slid down to spill thinly over the low bank.
Wildfire, now sinking to his knees, worked steadily upward till he had reached
a point halfway up the slope, at the head of a long, yellow bank of
treacherous-looking sand. Here he was halted by a low bulge, which he might
have surmounted had his feet been free. But he stood deep in the sand. For the
first time he looked down at the sweeping fire, and then at Slone.
Suddenly the bank of sand began to slide with him. He snorted in fright. The
avalanche started slowly and was evidently no mere surface slide. It was deep.
It stopped--then started again--and again stopped.


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