“I tracked—­you!” he cried, savagely.  “I stayed—­with you! . . .  An’ I got a rope—­on you!  An’—­I’ll ride you—­you red devil!”

The passion of the man was intense.  That endless, racking pursuit had brought out all the hardness the desert had engendered in him.  Almost hate, instead of love, spoke in Slone’s words.  He hauled on the lasso, pulling the stallion’s head down and down.  The action was the lust of capture as well as the rider’s instinctive motive to make the horse fear him.  Life was unquenchably wild and strong in that stallion; it showed in the terror which made him hideous.  And man and beast somehow resembled each other in that moment which was inimical to noble life.

The avalanche slipped with little jerks, as if treacherously loosing its hold for a long plunge.  The line of fire below ate at the bleached grass and the long column of smoke curled away on the wind.

Slone held the taut lasso with his left hand, and with the right he swung the other rope, catching the noose round Wildfire’s nose.  Then letting go of the first rope he hauled on the other, pulling the head of the stallion far down.  Hand over hand Slone closed in on the horse.  He leaped on Wildfire’s head, pressed it down, and, holding it down on the sand with his knees, with swift fingers he tied the noose in a hackamore—­an improvised halter.  Then, just as swiftly, he bound his scarf tight round Wildfire’s head, blindfolding him.

“All so easy!” exclaimed Slone, under his breath.  “Lord! who would believe it! . . .  Is it a dream?”

He rose and let the stallion have a free head.

“Wildfire, I got a rope on you—­an’ a hackamore—­an’ a blinder,” said Slone.  “An’ if I had a bridle I’d put that on you. . . .  Who’d ever believe you’d catch yourself, draggin’ in the sand?”

Slone, finding himself failing on the sand, grew alive to the augmented movement of the avalanche.  It had begun to slide, to heave and bulge and crack.  Dust rose in clouds from all around.  The sand appeared to open and let him sink to his knees.  The rattle of gravel was drowned in a soft roar.  Then he shot down swiftly, holding the lassoes, keeping himself erect, and riding as if in a boat.  He felt the successive steps of the slope, and then the long incline below, and then the checking and rising and spreading of the avalanche as it slowed down on the level.  All movement then was checked violently.  He appeared to be half buried in sand.  While he struggled to extricate himself the thick dust blew away and settled so that he could see.  Wildfire lay before him, at the edge of the slide, and now he was not so deeply embedded as he had been up on the slope.  He was struggling and probably soon would have been able to get out.  The line of fire was close now, but Slone did not fear that.

At his shrill whistle Nagger bounded toward him, obedient, but snorting, with ears laid back.  He halted.  A second whistle started him again.  Slone finally dug himself out of the sand, pulled the lassoes out, and ran the length of them toward Nagger.  The black showed both fear and fight.  His eyes roiled and he half shied away.