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Updated: June 9, 2025
There were patches of sand in which Wildfire's tracks showed so fresh that the water had not yet dried out of them. Slone rested his horse before attempting to climb out of that split in the rock. However, Wildfire had found an easy ascent. On this side of the cañon the bare rock did not predominate. A clear trail led up a dusty, gravelly slope, upon which scant greasewood and cactus appeared.
He then began to hum, but in a very low and suppressed tone, the first stanza of a favourite ballad of Wildfire's, the words of which bore some distant analogy with the situation of Robertson, trusting that the power of association would not fail to bring the rest to her mind:
"Bostil, my one chance was ruined an' you know who did it," replied Slone, as he gathered Nagger's rope and Wildfire's bridle together. "I've no hard feelin's.... But I can't sell you my horse. An' I can't ride for you because well, because it would breed trouble." "An' what kind?" queried Bostil. Holley and Farlane and Van, with several other riders, had come up and were standing open-mouthed.
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.
Tense questions pierced the dark chaos of Slone's mind what could he do? Run the King down! Make 'him kill Lucy! Save her from horrible death by fire! The red horse had not gained a yard on the gray. Slone, keen to judge distance, saw this, and for the first time he doubted Wildfire's power to ran down the King. Not with such a lead! It was hopeless so hopeless He turned to look back.
No birds of any species crossed Stone's sight. He came, presently, upon a lion track in the trail, made probably a day before. Slone grew curious about it, seeing how it held, as he was holding, to Wildfire's tracks. After a mile or so he made sure the lion had been trailing the stallion, and for a second he felt a cold contraction of his heart.
A mile or more ahead of him rose a gray cliff with breaks in it and a line of dark cedars or pinyons on the level rims. He believed these breaks to be the mouths of canyons, and so it turned out. Wildfire's trail led into the mouth of a narrow canyon with very steep and high walls. Nagger snorted his perception of water, and the mustang whistled.
If there is a reaction against an excess of hair oil, and hair slimy and sticky with grease is thought less nice than if left clean with a healthy crisp, she dries and frizzes and sticks hers out on end like certain savages in Africa, or lets it wander down her back like Madge Wildfire's, and thinks herself all the more beautiful the nearer she approaches in look to a maniac or a negress!
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.
Slone camped this night at a muddy pond in the woods, where Wildfire's tracks showed plainly. On the following day Slone rode out of the forest into a country of scanty cedars, bleached and stunted, and out of this to the edge of a plateau, from which the shimmering desert flung its vast and desolate distances, forbidding and menacing.
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