“Bostil, that rider is worthy of his horse,” said Wetherby.  “I think Sears would have bored you.  I saw his finger pressing—­pressing on the trigger.  Men like Sears can’t help but pull at that stage.”

“Thet was the quickest trick I ever seen,” declared Macomber.

They watched Wildfire run down the slope, out into the valley, with a streak of rising dust out behind.  They all saw when there ceased to be that peculiar rising of dust.  Wildfire appeared to shoot ahead at greater speed.  Then he slowed up.  The rider turned him and faced back toward the group, coming at a stiff gallop.  Soon Wildfire breasted the slope, and halted, snorting, shaking before the men.  The lasso was still trailing out behind, limp and sagging.  There was no weight upon it now.

Bostil strode slowly ahead.  He sympathized with the tension that held Slone; he knew why the rider’s face was gray, why his lips only moved mutely, why there was horror in the dark, strained eyes, why the lean, strong hands, slowly taking up the lasso, now shook like leaves in the wind.

There was only dust on the lasso.  But Bostil knew—­they all knew that none the less it had dealt a terrible death to the horse-thief.

Somehow Bostil could not find words for what he wanted to say.  He put a hand on the red stallion—­patted his shoulder.  Then he gripped Slone close and hard.  He was thinking how he would have gloried in a son like this young, wild rider.  Then he again faced his comrades.

“Fellers, do you think Cordts was in on thet trick?” he queried.

“Nope.  Cordts was on the square,” replied Holley.  “But he must have seen it comin’ an’ left Sears to his fate.  It sure was a fittin’ last ride for a hoss-thief.”

Bostil sent Holley and Farlane on ahead to find Cordts and Hutchinson, with their comrades, to tell them the fate of Sears, and to warn them to leave before the news got to the riders.

The sun was setting golden and red over the broken battlements of the canyons to the west.  The heat of the day blew away on a breeze that bent the tips of the sage-brush.  A wild song drifted back from the riders to the fore.  And the procession of Indians moved along, their gay trappings and bright colors beautiful in the fading sunset light.

When Bostil and, his guests arrived at the corrals, Holley, with Farlane and other riders, were waiting.

“Boss,” said Holley, “Cordts an’ his outfit never rid in.  They was last seen by some Navajos headin’ for the canyon.”

“Thet’s good!” ejaculated Bostil, in relief.  “Wal boys, look after the hosses. . . .  Slone, just turn Wildfire over to the boys with instructions, an’ feel safe.”

Farlane scratched his head and looked dubious.  “I’m wonderin’ how safe it’ll be fer us.”

“I’ll look after him,” said Slone.

Bostil nodded as if he had expected Slone to refuse to let any rider put the stallion away for the night.  Wildfire would not go into the barn, and Slone led him into one of the high-barred corrals.  Bostil waited, talking with his friends, until Slone returned, and then they went toward the house.