He
appeared to be half buried in sand. While he struggled to extricate himself
the thick dust blew away and settled so that he could see. Wildfire lay before
him, at the edge of the slide, and now he was not so deeply embedded as he had
been up on the slope. He was struggling and probably soon would have been able
to get out. The line of fire was close now, but Slone did not fear that.
At his shrill whistle Nagger bounded toward him, obedient, but snorting, with
ears laid back. He halted. A second whistle started him again. Slone finally
dug himself out of the sand, pulled the lassoes out, and ran the length of
them toward Nagger. The black showed both fear and fight. His eyes roiled and
he half shied away.
"Come on!" called Slone, harshly.
He got a hand on the horse, pulled him round, and, mounting in a flash, wound
both lassoes round the pommel of the saddle.
"Haul him out, Nagger, old boy!" cried Slone, and he dug spurs into the black.
One plunge of Nagger's slid the stallion out of the sand. Snorting, wild,
blinded, Wildfire got up, shaking in every limb.
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