ticks of
wood. Farther back in the pass he found stunted dead cedars, and from
these secured enough for his purpose. He kindled a fire and burned the
ends of the sticks into red embers. Making a bundle of these, he put
them under his arm, the dull, glowing ends backward, and then mounted
his horse.

It was just about dark when he faced down into the valley. When he
reached level ground he kept to the edge of the left slope and put
Nagger to a good trot. The grass and brush were scant here, and the
color of the sand was light, so he had no difficulty in traveling. From
time to time his horse went through grass, and its dry, crackling
rustle, showing how it would burn, was music to Slone. Gradually the
monuments began to loom up, bold and black against the blue sky, with
stars seemingly hanging close over them. Slone had calculated that the
basin was smaller than it really was, in both length and breadth. This
worried him. Wildfire might see or hear or scent him, and make a break
back to the pass and thus escape. Slone was glad when the huge, dark
monuments were indistinguishable from the black, frowning wall. He had
to go slower here, because of the darkness. But at last he reached the
slow rise of jumbled rock that evidently marked the extent of weathering
on that side. Here he turned to the right and rode out into the valley.
The floor was level and thickly overgrown with long, dead grass and dead
greasewood, as dry as tinder. It was easy to account for the dryness;
neither snow nor rain had visited that valley for many months. Slone
whipped one of the sticks in the wind and soon had the smouldering end
red and showering sparks. Then he dropped the stick in the grass, with
curious intent and a strange feeling of regret.

Instantly the grass blazed with a little sputtering roar. Nagger
snorted. "Wildfire!" exclaimed Slone. That word was a favorite one with
riders, and now Slone used it both to call out his menace to the
stallion and to express his feeling for that blaze, already running
wild.

Without looking back, Slone rode across the valley, dropping a glowing
stick every quarter of a mile. When he reached the other side there were
a dozen fires behind him, burning slowly, with white smoke rising
lazily. Then he loped Nagger along the side back to the sandy ascent,
and on up to the mouth of the pass. There he searched for tracks.
Wildfire had not gone out, and Slone experienced relief and exultation.
He took up a