Wildfire’s tracks led down into this basin, and presently Slone, by straining his eyes, made out the red spot that was the stallion.

“He’s lookin’ to quit the country,” soliloquized Slone, as he surveyed the scene.

With keen, slow gaze Slone studied the lay of wall and slope, and when he had circled the huge depression he made sure that Wildfire could not get out except by the narrow pass through which he had gone in.  Slone sat astride Nagger in the mouth of this pass—­a wash a few yards wide, walled by broken, rough rock on one side and an insurmountable slope on the other.

“If this hole was only little, now,” sighed Slone, as he gazed at the sweeping, shimmering oval floor, “I might have a chance.  But down there—­we couldn’t get near him.”

There was no water in that dry bowl.  Slone reflected on the uselessness of keeping Wildfire down there, because Nagger could not go without water as long as Wildfire.  For the first time Slone hesitated.  It seemed merciless to Nagger to drive him down into this hot, windy hole.  The wind blew from the west, and it swooped up the slope, hot, with the odor of dry, dead grass.

But that hot wind stirred Slone with an idea, and suddenly he was tense, excited, glowing, yet grim and hard.

“Wildfire, I’ll make you run with your namesake in that high grass,” called Slone.  The speech was full of bitter failure, of regret, of the hardness of a rider who could not give up the horse to freedom.

Slone meant to ride down there and fire the long grass.  In that wind there would indeed be wildfire to race with the red stallion.  It would perhaps mean his death; at least it would chase him out of that hole, where to follow him would be useless.

“I’d make you hump now to get away if I could get behind you,” muttered Slone.  He saw that if he could fire the grass on the other side the wind of flame would drive Wildfire straight toward him.  The slopes and walls narrowed up to the pass, but high grass grew to within a few rods of where Slone stood.  But it seemed impossible to get behind Wildfire.

“At night—­then—­I could get round him,” said Slone, thinking hard and narrowing his gaze to scan the circle of wall and slope.  “Why not? . . .  No wind at night.  That grass would burn slow till mornin’—­till the wind came up—­an’ it’s been west for days.”

Suddenly Slone began to pound the patient Nagger and to cry out to him in wild exultance.

“Old horse, we’ve got him! . . .  We’ve got him! . . .  We’ll put a rope on him before this time to-morrow!”

Slone yielded to his strange, wild joy, but it did not last long, soon succeeding to sober, keen thought.  He rode down into the bowl a mile, making absolutely certain that Wildfire could not climb out on that side.  The far end, beyond the monuments, was a sheer wall of rock.  Then he crossed to the left side.  Here the sandy slope was almost too steep for even him to go up.  And there was grass that would burn.  He returned to the pass assured that Wildfire had at last fallen into a trap the like Slone had never dreamed of.  The great horse was doomed to run into living flame or the whirling noose of a lasso.