The shades of night fell swiftly, and it was dark by the time the hunters finished the meal.  Then the campfire had burned low.  One of the three dragged branches of dead cedars and replenished the fire.  Quickly it flared up, with the white flame and crackle characteristic of dry cedar.  The night wind had risen, moaning through the gnarled, stunted cedars near by, and it blew the fragrant wood-smoke into the faces of the two hunters, who seemed too tired to move.

“I reckon a pipe would help me make up my mind,” said one.

“Wal, Bill,” replied the other, dryly, “your mind’s made up, else you’d not say smoke.”

“Why?”

“Because there ain’t three pipefuls of thet precious tobacco left.”

“Thet’s one apiece, then. . . .  Lin, come an’ smoke the last pipe with us.”

The tallest of the three, he who had brought the firewood, stood in the bright light of the blaze.  He looked the born rider, light, lithe, powerful.

“Sure, I’ll smoke,” he replied.

Then, presently, he accepted the pipe tendered him, and, sitting down beside the fire, he composed himself to the enjoyment which his companions evidently considered worthy of a decision they had reached.

“So this smokin’ means you both want to turn back?” queried Lin, his sharp gaze glancing darkly bright in the glow of the fire.

“Yep, we’ll turn back.  An’, Lordy! the relief I feel!” replied one.

“We’ve been long comin’ to it, Lin, an’ thet was for your sake,” replied the other.

Lin slowly pulled at his pipe and blew out the smoke as if reluctant to part with it.  “Let’s go on,” he said, quietly.

“No.  I’ve had all I want of chasin’ thet damn wild stallion,” returned Bill, shortly.

The other spread wide his hands and bent an expostulating look upon the one called Lin.  “We’re two hundred miles out,” he said.  “There’s only a little flour left in the bag.  No coffee!  Only a little salt!  All the hosses except your big Nagger are played out.  We’re already in strange country.  An’ you know what we’ve heerd of this an’ all to the south.  It’s all canyons, an’ somewheres down there is thet awful canyon none of our people ever seen.  But we’ve heerd of it.  An awful cut-up country.”

He finished with a conviction that no one could say a word against the common sense of his argument.  Lin was silent, as if impressed.

Bill raised a strong, lean, brown hand in a forcible gesture.  “We can’t ketch Wildfire!”

That seemed to him, evidently, a more convincing argument than his comrade’s.

“Bill is sure right, if I’m wrong, which I ain’t,” went on the other.  “Lin, we’ve trailed thet wild stallion for six weeks.  Thet’s the longest chase he ever had.  He’s left his old range.  He’s cut out his band, an’ left them, one by one.  We’ve tried every trick we know on him.  An’ he’s too smart for us.  There’s a hoss!  Why, Lin, we’re all but gone to the dogs chasin’ Wildfire.  An’ now I’m done, an’ I’m glad of it.”