All the terrible hate and evil and cruelty and deadliness of his kind burned in his eyes and stung in his voice.

“Sears, if it’s my horse you want you needn’t kill Bostil,” spoke up Slone.  The contrast of his cool, quiet voice eased the terrible strain.

“Lead him round hyar!” snapped Sears.

Wildfire appeared more shy of the horses back of him than of the men.  Slone was able to lead him, however, to within several paces of Sears.  Then Slone dropped the reins.  He still held a lasso which was loosely coiled, and the loop dropped in front of him as he backed away.

Sears sheathed the left-hand gun.  Keeping the group covered with the other, he moved backward, reaching for the hanging reins.  Wildfire snorted, appeared about to jump.  But Sears got the reins.  Bostil, standing like a stone, his companions also motionless, could not help but admire the daring of this upland horse-thief.  How was he to mount that wild stallion?  Sears was noted for two qualities—­his nerve before men and his skill with horses.  Assuredly he would not risk an ordinary mount.  Wildfire began to suspect Sears—­to look at him instead of the other horses.  Then quick as a cat Sears vaulted into the saddle.  Wildfire snorted and lifted his forefeet in a lunge that meant he would bolt.

Sears in vaulting up had swung the gun aloft.  He swept it down, but waveringly, for Wildfire had begun to rear.

Bostil saw how fatal that single instant would have been for Sears if he or Holley had a gun.

Something whistled.  Bostil saw the leap of Slone’s lasso—­the curling, snaky dart of the noose which flew up to snap around Sears.  The rope sung taut.  Sears was swept bodily clean from the saddle, to hit the ground in sodden impact.

Almost swifter than Bostil’s sight was the action of Slone—­flashing by—­in the air—­himself on the plunging horse.  Sears shot once, twice.  Then Wildfire bolted as his rider whipped the lasso round the horn.  Sears, half rising, was jerked ten feet.  An awful shriek was throttled in his throat.

A streak of dust on the slope—­a tearing, parting line in the sage!

Bostil stood amazed.  The red stallion made short plunges.  Slone reached low for the tripping reins.  When he straightened up in the saddle Wildfire broke wildly into a run.

It was characteristic of Holley that at this thrilling, tragic instant he walked over into the sage to pick up his gun.

“Throwed a gun on me, got the drop, an’ pitched mine away!” muttered Holley, in disgust.  The way he spoke meant that he was disgraced.

“My Gawd!  I was scared thet Sears would get the hoss!” rolled out Bostil.

Holley thought of his gun; Bostil thought of the splendid horse.  The thoughts were characteristic of these riders.  The other men, however, recovering from a horror-broken silence, burst out in acclaim of Slone’s feat.

“Dick Sears’s finish!  Roped by a boy rider!” exclaimed Cal Blinn, fervidly.