Almost hate, instead of
love, spoke in Slone's words. He hauled on the lasso, pulling the stallion's
head down and down. The action was the lust of capture as well as the rider's
instinctive motive to make the horse fear him. Life was unquenchably wild and
strong in that stallion; it showed in the terror which made him hideous. And
man and beast somehow resembled each other in that moment which was inimical
to noble life.
The avalanche slipped with little jerks, as if treacherously loosing its hold
for a long plunge. The line of fire below ate at the bleached grass and the
long column of smoke curled away on the wind.
Slone held the taut lasso with his left hand, and with the right he swung the
other rope, catching the noose round Wildfire's nose. Then letting go of the
first rope he hauled on the other, pulling the head of the stallion far down.
Hand over hand Slone closed in on the horse. He leaped on Wildfire's head,
pressed it down, and, holding it down on the sand with his knees, with swift
fingers he tied the noose in a hackamore--an improvised halter.
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