Slone finished with a strange sternness that seemed almost bitter.
Bostil raised both his huge fists. The blood was bulging his thick neck. It was another kind of passion that obsessed him. Only some violent check to his emotion prevented him from embracing Slone. The huge fists unclenched and the big fingers worked.
"You mean to tell me you did fer Cordts an' Hutch what you did fer Sears?" he boomed out.
"They're dead—gone, Bostil—honest to God!" replied Slone.
Holley thrust a quivering, brown hand into Bostil's face. "What did I tell you?" he shouted. "Didn't I say wait?"
Bostil threw away all that deep fury of passion, and there seemed only a resistless and speechless admiration left. Then ensued a moment of silence. The riders watched Slone's weary face as it drooped, and Bostil, as he loomed over him.
"Where's the red stallion?" queried Bostil. That was the question hard to get out.
Slone raised eyes dark with pain, yet they flashed as he looked straight up into Bostil's face. "Wildfire's dead!"
"DEAD!" ejaculated Bostil.
Another moment of strained exciting suspense.