Yet that move was very slow in coming.  It was the time of day when ordinarily the herder collected his drove and returned toward the home corral; still he showed no intention of haste.  The broncho was shaking his head at intervals restlessly; too well trained to leave, yet impatient as a hungry child for the return—­and was ignored.  For the time being the man seemed to have forgotten all external considerations.  Not savagely nor cruelly, but with a sort of fascination he stood gazing at this wild thing in his power.  For a long, long time he did nothing more, merely looked at it; looked admiringly, intimately.  No trace of blood hunger was in his face, no lust to kill; but pure appreciation—­and something more; something that made the two almost kin.  And they were much alike; almost startlingly alike.  Each was graceful in every movement, in every line.  Each was of its kind physical perfection.  Each unmistakably bore a message of the wild; of solitude, of magnificent distances.  Each was a part of its setting; as much so as the all-surrounding silence.  Last of all, each stood for one quality dominant, one desire overtowering all others; and that was freedom, unqualified, absolute.

Long as it was they stood there so, the bird was true to its instinct of passive inaction.  It was the human that made the first move.  Gently, slowly, one hand freed itself, stroked the silky soft plumage; stroked it intimately, almost lovingly—­as an animal mother caresses its young.  The man did not speak, made no sound, merely repeated the motion again and again.  Under the touch the restless head became still, the watchful black eyes more watchful.  That was all.  Slowly as it had moved before, the man’s hand shifted anew, passed down, down, the glossy throat to the breast—­paused over the heart of the wild thing.  There it remained, and for the first time a definite expression came into the mask-like face; a look of pity, of genuine contrition.  A moment the hand lay there; then, childish as it may seem, absurd, if you please, the man spoke aloud.

“You’re afraid of me, deathly afraid, aren’t you, birdie?” he queried softly.  “You think because I’m bigger than you and a cannibal, I’m going to kill you.”  Kneeling, he looked fair into the black eyes—­deep, mysterious as the wild itself.  “You think this, and still you don’t grovel, don’t make a sound.  You’re brave, birdie, braver than most men.”  He paused, and one by one his hands loosened their grip.  “I’m proud of you; so proud that I’m going to say good-bye.”  He straightened to his full height.  Unconsciously his arms folded across his chest.  “Go, birdie; you’re free.”

A moment longer there was inaction.  Unbelieving, still a captive, the great bird stood there motionless as before; then of a sudden it understood; it was free.  By some chance, some Providence, this great animal, its captor, had lost the mastery, and it was free.  Simultaneously with the knowledge the pent-up energy of the last minutes went active, fairly explosive.  With a mighty rush it was away; feet and wings beating the earth, the air.  Swifter and swifter it went, gaining momentum with each second.  It barely touched the frost-brown prairie; it cleared it entirely, it rose, rose, with mighty sweeps of mighty wings.  Oh, it was free! free! free!  “Honk! honk!” Free! free!  “Honk! honk! honk!”