the two lines met a sudden and larger blaze
rose.

"Ah!" said the rider, and then he watched the other lines creeping
together. How slowly fire moved, he thought. The red stallion would
have every chance to run between those lines, if he dared. But a wild
horse feared nothing like fire. This one would not run the gantlet of
flames. Nevertheless, Slone felt more and more relieved as the lines
closed. The hours of the night dragged past until at length one long,
continuous line of fire spread level across the valley, its bright, red
line broken only where the monuments of stone were silhouetted against
it.

The darkness of the valley changed. The light of the moon changed. The
radiance of the stars changed. Either the line of fire was finding
denser fuel to consume or it was growing appreciably closer, for the
flames began to grow, to leap, and to flare.

Slone strained his ears for the thud of hoofs on sand.

The time seemed endless in its futility of results, but fleeting after
it had passed; and he could tell how the hours fled by the
ever-recurring need to replenish the little fire he kept burning in the
pass.

A broad belt of valley grew bright in the light, and behind it loomed
the monuments, weird and dark, with columns of yellow and white smoke
wreathing them.

Suddenly Slone's sensitive ear vibrated to a thrilling sound. He leaned
down to place his ear to the sand. Rapid, rhythmic beat of hoofs made
him leap to his feet, reaching for his lasso with right hand and a gun
with his left.

Nagger lifted his head, sniffed the air, and snorted. Slone peered into
the black belt of gloom that lay below him. It would be hard to see a
horse there, unless he got high enough to be silhouetted against that
line of fire now flaring to the sky. But he heard the beat of hoofs,
swift, sharp, louder--louder. The night shadows were deceptive. That
wonderful light confused him, made the place unreal. Was he dreaming?
Or had the long chase and his privations unhinged his mind? He reached
for Nagger. No! The big black was real, alive, quivering, pounding the
sand. He scented an enemy.

Once more Slone peered down into the void or what seemed a void. But
it, too, had changed, lightened. The whole valley was brightening.
Great palls of curling smoke rose white and yellow, to turn back as the
monuments met their crests, and then to roll upward, blotting out the
stars. It was such a light as he had never seen, except in dreams.