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He fancied his eyes were failing him, that
it was not possible the great horse really was up there, helpless in the sand.
Yet every huge stride Slone took brought him closer to a fact he could not
deny. In his eagerness he slipped, and fell, and crawled, and leaped, until he
reached the slide which held Wildfire prisoner.
The stallion might have been fast in quicksand, up to his body, for all the
movement he could make. He could move only his head. He held that up, his eyes
wild, showing the whites, his foaming mouth wide open, his teeth gleaming. A
sound like a scream rent the air. Terrible fear and hate were expressed in
that piercing neigh. And shaggy, wet, dusty red, with all of brute savageness
in the look and action of his head, he appeared hideous.
As Slone leaped within roping distance the avalanche slipped a foot or two,
halted, slipped once more, and slowly started again with that low roar. He did
not care whether it slipped or stopped. Like a wolf he leaped closer, whirling
his rope. The loop hissed round his head and whistled as he flung it.


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