Assuredly
he would not risk an ordinary mount. Wildfire began to suspect Sears--to look
at him instead of the other horses. Then quick as a cat Sears vaulted into the
saddle. Wildfire snorted and lifted his forefeet in a lunge that meant he
would bolt.
Sears in vaulting up had swung the gun aloft. He swept it down, but
waveringly, for Wildfire had begun to rear.
Bostil saw how fatal that single instant would have been for Sears if he or
Holley had a gun.
Something whistled. Bostil saw the leap of Slone's lasso--the curling, snaky
dart of the noose which flew up to snap around Sears. The rope sung taut.
Sears was swept bodily clean from the saddle, to hit the ground in sodden
impact.
Almost swifter than Bostil's sight was the action of Slone--flashing by--in
the air--himself on the plunging horse. Sears shot once, twice. Then Wildfire
bolted as his rider whipped the lasso round the horn. Sears, half rising, was
jerked ten feet. An awful shriek was throttled in his throat.
A streak of dust on the slope--a tearing, parting line in the sage!
Bostil stood amazed.
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