And when fiercely he jerked back on the rope, the noose closed tight round Wildfire's neck.
"By G--d--I--got--a rope--on him!" cried Slone, in hoarse pants.
He stared, unbelieving.

It was unreal, that sight--unreal like the slow, grinding movement of the avalanche under him.

Wildfire's head seemed a demon head of hate.

It reached out, mouth agape, to bite, to rend.

That horrible scream could not be the scream of a horse.
Slone was a wild-horse hunter, a rider, and when that second of incredulity flashed by, then came the moment of triumph.