n't he ring bells offen the rocks?" exclaimed Bill. "Oh, Lordy!
what a hoss!"

"Boys, do you think he's leavin' the country?" inquired Slone,
anxiously.

"Sure he is," replied Bill. "He ain't the first stallion I've chased
off the Sevier range. An' I know. It's a stallion thet makes for new
country, when you push him hard."

"Yep, Lin, he's sure leavin'," added the other comrade. "Why, he's
traveled a bee-line for days! I'll bet he's seen us many a time.
Wildfire's about as smart as any man. He was born wild, an' his dam was
born wild, an' there you have it. The wildest of all wild creatures--a
wild stallion, with the intelligence of a man! A grand hoss, Lin, but
one thet'll be hell, if you ever ketch him. He has killed stallions all
over the Sevier range. A wild stallion thet's a killer! I never liked
him for thet. Could he be broke?"

"I'll break him," said Lin Slone, grimly. "It's gettin' him thet's the
job. I've got patience to break a hoss. But patience can't catch a
streak of lightnin'."

"Nope; you're right," replied Bill. "If you have some luck you'll get
him--mebbe. If he wears out his feet, or if you crowd him into a narrow
canyon, or ran him into a bad place where he can't get by you. Thet
might happen. An' then, with Nagger, you stand a chance. Did you ever
tire thet hoss?"

"Not yet."

"An' how fur did you ever run him without a break? Why, when we ketched
thet sorrel last year I rode Nagger myself--thirty miles, most at a
hard gallop. An' he never turned a hair!"

"I've beat thet," replied Lin. "He could run hard fifty miles--mebbe
more. Honestly, I never seen him tired yet. If only he was fast!"

"Wal, Nagger ain't so durned slow, come to think of thet," replied
Bill, with a grunt. "He's good enough for you not to want another hoss."

"Lin, you're goin' to wear out Wildfire, an' then trap him somehow--is
thet the plan?" asked the other comrade.

"I haven't any plan. I'll just trail him, like a cougar trails a deer."

"Lin, if Wildfire gives you the slip he'll have to fly. You've got the
best eyes for tracks of any wrangler in Utah."

Slone accepted the compliment with a fleeting, doubtful smile on his
dark face. He did not reply, and no more was said by his comrades. They
rolled with backs to the fire. Slone put on more wood, for the keen
wind was cold and cutting; and then he lay down, his head in his
saddle, with a goatskin under him and a saddle-blanket over him.

All three were soon