Suddenly the bank of sand began to slide with him.  He snorted in fright.  The avalanche started slowly and was evidently no mere surface slide.  It was deep.  It stopped—­then started again—­and again stopped.  Wildfire appeared to be sinking deeper and deeper.  His struggles only embedded him more firmly.  Then the bank of sand, with an ominous, low roar, began to move once more.  This time it slipped swiftly.  The dust rose in a cloud, almost obscuring the horse.  Long streams of gravel rattled down, and waterfalls of sand waved over the steps of the slope.

Just as suddenly the avalanche stopped again.  Slone saw, from the great oval hole it had left above, that it was indeed deep.  That was the reason it did not slide readily.  When the dust cleared away Slone saw the stallion, sunk to his flanks in the sand, utterly helpless.

With a wild whoop Slone leaped off Nagger, and, a lasso in each hand, he ran down the long bank.  The fire was perhaps a quarter of a mile distant, and, since the grass was thinning out, it was not coming so fast as it had been.  The position of the stallion was half-way between the fire and Slone, and a hundred yards up the slope.

Like a madman Slone climbed up through the dragging, loose sand.  He was beside himself with a fury of excitement.  He fancied his eyes were failing him, that it was not possible the great horse really was up there, helpless in the sand.  Yet every huge stride Slone took brought him closer to a fact he could not deny.  In his eagerness he slipped, and fell, and crawled, and leaped, until he reached the slide which held Wildfire prisoner.

The stallion might have been fast in quicksand, up to his body, for all the movement he could make.  He could move only his head.  He held that up, his eyes wild, showing the whites, his foaming mouth wide open, his teeth gleaming.  A sound like a scream rent the air.  Terrible fear and hate were expressed in that piercing neigh.  And shaggy, wet, dusty red, with all of brute savageness in the look and action of his head, he appeared hideous.

As Slone leaped within roping distance the avalanche slipped a foot or two, halted, slipped once more, and slowly started again with that low roar.  He did not care whether it slipped or stopped.  Like a wolf he leaped closer, whirling his rope.  The loop hissed round his head and whistled as he flung it.  And when fiercely he jerked back on the rope, the noose closed tight round Wildfire’s neck.

“By G—­d—­I—­got—­a rope—­on him!” cried Slone, in hoarse pants.

He stared, unbelieving.  It was unreal, that sight—­unreal like the slow, grinding movement of the avalanche under him.  Wildfire’s head seemed a demon head of hate.  It reached out, mouth agape, to bite, to rend.  That horrible scream could not be the scream of a horse.

Slone was a wild-horse hunter, a rider, and when that second of incredulity flashed by, then came the moment of triumph.  No moment could ever equal that one, when he realized he stood there with a rope around that grand stallion’s neck.  All the days and the miles and the toil and the endurance and the hopelessness and the hunger were paid for in that moment.  His heart seemed too large for his breast.