ow sinking to his knees, worked steadily upward till he
had reached a point halfway up the slope, at the head of a long, yellow
bank of treacherous-looking sand. Here he was halted by a low bulge,
which he might have surmounted had his feet been free. But he stood deep
in the sand. For the first time he looked down at the sweeping fire, and
then at Slone.

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 steppes 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 halfway 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 avalanc