Wildfire was cornered, trapped.  Many times Slone nervously uncoiled and recoiled his lasso.  Presently the great chance of his life would come—­the hardest and most important throw he would ever have with a rope.  He did not miss often, but then he missed sometimes, and here he must be swift and sure.  It annoyed him that his hands perspired and trembled and that something weighty seemed to obstruct his breathing.  He muttered that he was pretty much worn out, not in the best of condition for a hard fight with a wild horse.  Still he would capture Wildfire; his mind was unalterably set there.  He anticipated that the stallion would make a final and desperate rush past him; and he had his plan of action all outlined.  What worried him was the possibility of Wildfire doing some unforeseen feat at the very last.  Slone was prepared for hours of strained watching, and then a desperate effort, and then a shock that might kill Wildfire and cripple Nagger, or a long race and fight.

But he soon discovered that he was wrong about the long watch and wait.  The wind had grown strong and was driving the fire swiftly.  The flames, fanned by the breeze, leaped to a formidable barrier.  In less than an hour, though the time seemed only a few moments to the excited Slone, Wildfire had been driven down toward the narrowing neck of the valley, and he had begun to run, to and fro, back and forth.  Any moment, then, Slone expected him to grow terrorized and to come tearing up toward the pass.

Wildfire showed evidence of terror, but he did not attempt to make the pass.  Instead he went at the right-hand slope of the valley and began to climb.  The slope was steep and soft, yet the stallion climbed up and up.  The dust flew in clouds; the gravel rolled down, and the sand followed in long streams.  Wildfire showed his keenness by zigzagging up the slope.

“Go ahead, you red devil!” yelled Slone.  He was much elated.  In that soft bank Wildfire would tire out while not hurting himself.

Slone watched the stallion in admiration and pity and exultation.  Wildfire did not make much headway, for he slipped back almost as much as he gained.  He attempted one place after another where he failed.  There was a bank of clay, some few feet high, and he could not round it at either end or surmount it in the middle.  Finally he literally pawed and cut a path, much as if he were digging in the sand for water.  When he got over that he was not much better off.  The slope above was endless and grew steeper, more difficult toward the top.  Slone knew absolutely that no horse could climb over it.  He grew apprehensive, however, for Wildfire might stick up there on the slope until the line of fire passed.  The horse apparently shunned any near proximity to the fire, and performed prodigious efforts to escape.

“He’ll be ridin’ an avalanche pretty soon,” muttered Slone.

Long sheets of sand and gravel slid down to spill thinly over the low bank.  Wildfire, now sinking to his knees, worked steadily upward till he had reached a point halfway up the slope, at the head of a long, yellow bank of treacherous-looking sand.  Here he was halted by a low bulge, which he might have surmounted had his feet been free.  But he stood deep in the sand.  For the first time he looked down at the sweeping fire, and then at Slone.