They watched Wildfire run down the slope, out into the valley, with a streak
of rising dust out behind. They all saw when there ceased to be that peculiar
rising of dust. Wildfire appeared to shoot ahead at greater speed. Then he
slowed up. The rider turned him and faced back toward the group, coming at a
stiff gallop. Soon Wildfire breasted the slope, and halted, snorting, shaking
before the men. The lasso was still trailing out behind, limp and sagging.
There was no weight upon it now.
Bostil strode slowly ahead. He sympathized with the tension that held Slone;
he knew why the rider's face was gray, why his lips only moved mutely, why
there was horror in the dark, strained eyes, why the lean, strong hands,
slowly taking up the lasso, now shook like leaves in the wind.
There was only dust on the lasso. But Bostil knew--they all knew that none the
less it had dealt a terrible death to the horse-thief.
Somehow Bostil could not find words for what he wanted to say. He put a hand
on the red stallion--patted his shoulder.
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