before dawn alice awoke in a fit of coughing. her bedroom was a blank. the open window overlooking the torrent had disappeared. she sat up choking—staring with wide open, stinging eyes, into an acrid haze. she felt for the matches beside her bed and struck one. its flame burned saffron for an instant and went out as if it had been plunged into a bottle. at this instant she would have shrieked with fright had not the sound of a man leaping up the stairs leading to her room reached her ears. then her door crashed in clear of its hinges. she remained sitting bolt upright in bed, too terrified to move. a pair of sinewy arms reached out for her, groping in the strangling haze.
"who's there?" she gasped.
"keep your mouth shut!" commanded a voice close to her ear; then the arms lifted her bodily out of bed and swung her clear of the floor; a glimmering tongue of flame licking up the stairway revealed the features of the man in whose arms she struggled.
"holcomb!" she started to cry out, but the acrid fog closed her throat.
"keep your mouth shut—do you hear!" he muttered in her ear; "we'll be out of this in a minute." he lunged with her headlong over the smashed door and reached the top of the flight, feeling for the first step cautiously with his foot. she screamed this time, beating his face with her clenched hands.
"keep your mouth shut," he mumbled; "you'll strangle."
her arm became limp. "where's sam?—where's—" she pleaded feebly. then a dull roar rang in her ears; she lay unconscious, a dead weight in his arms.
holcomb began to stagger on the bottom step, reeling like a drunkard; again he proceeded, stumbling on through the passageway leading to blakeman's pantry. the ceiling of varnished yellow pine above him rained down sputtering drippings of flame; they burned his neck, his hands, his hair. he dashed on through a pantry of sizzling blisters, past a glowing wall in a hot fog of yellow smoke, one burned hand covering her mouth. then he turned sharply to the left, striking his shoulder heavily against a corner beam!
the blow made him conscious of a man crawling on his hands and knees toward them. the man rose—groped blindly like an animal driven to bay and rushed straight at him.
"give her to me, billy," he hissed in his ear, "quick—save yourself!"
then a burned fist struck straight out and missed—struck again and
holcomb fell senseless.
with the quickness of a cat the man caught the woman in his arms, groped his way to the open, laid her prostrate body on the charred grass—sprang back into the swirl and choke of the deadly gas and smoke, and the next instant reappeared with the stunned and half-conscious holcomb on his back, his hair singed, his clothes on fire; then he tripped and fell headlong.
the shock brought holcomb to his senses. the man was stooping over him, his ear close to his cheek.
"it's me, billy—bob dinsmore. i didn't want to hurt ye, but i see ye couldn't manage her and yerself and thar warn't no other way; ye'd both been smothered. she's all right—they're tendin' to her."
holcomb clutched at the hide-out's sleeve.
"no—i dassent stay—nobody seen me but you"—and he was swallowed up in the shadows.
two men and a girl now swept past the half-dazed man, halted for a moment, and with a cry of joy from the girl, aided by the trapper and the clown, dragged him clear of the rain of burning embers.
when holcomb regained consciousness margaret was bending over him.
"no, billy—don't move, dear. please, oh, please—" and she kissed his cheek—two soft little kisses—the kisses he had remembered in his dream. then she left him.
he forgot the pain racking his arm; his brain grew clearer. he reached his feet, lurching unsteadily toward thayor, who sat by alice who was sobbing hysterically. the banker put out his left hand and covered holcomb's burned fist tenderly, his gaze still fixed on the leaping flames, but neither spoke. the situation was too intense for words.
* * * * *
during this utter destruction not a man among the gang employed had put in an appearance. this fact, in itself, was alarming; nor had one outside of these come to the rescue. there was no doubt now that the general desertion had been as premeditated as the fire. who were the prime movers of this dastardly revenge remained still a mystery.
the housekeeper, the cook, the two maids and the valet—all but blakeman and annette, who had awakened at the first alarm—had made their escape in terror down the macadam road; they were just in time; this road—the only open exit leading out from big shanty being now barred by flame. worse than all, this barrier of fire had widened so that now two roaring wings of burning timber extended from the very edge of the torrent in a vast semi-circle of flame—sinister and impenetrable—across the compound and far into the woods on the other side. it was as if the last life boat had been launched from a sinking ship, leaving those who were too late to die!
their only way out now lay through that trackless wilderness behind them.
here was a situation far graver than the burning of big shanty. the gray-haired man with his back against the hemlock realized this. he still stood grimly watching the fire—his ashen lips shut tight.
big shanty burned briskly; it crackled, blazed, puffed and roared, driven by a northeast wind. the northeast wind was in league with the flames. it was on hand; it had begun with the stables—it had now nearly finished with the main camp. the surrounding buildings—the innumerable shelters for innumerable things—made a poor display; they went too quickly. it was the varnish in the main camp that went mad in flame—rioting flames that swept joyously now in oily waves. the northeast wind spared nothing. it seemed to howl to the flames: "keep on—i'll back you—i'm game until daylight."
walls, partitions, gables, roofs, ridge-poles, stuff in closets, furniture, luxuries, rugs, pictures, floors, clapboards, jewels, shingles, a grand piano, guns, gowns, books, money—in twenty minutes became a glowing hole in the ground. the destruction was complete; the heel of the northeast wind had stamped it flat. big shanty camp had vanished.
the man braced against the trunk of the hemlock saw all this with the old, weary, haggard look in his eyes, yet not a syllable escaped his lips. he saw the northeast wind drive its friend the fire straight into the thick timber of the wilderness; trees crackled, flared and gave up; others ahead of them bent, burst and went under—the northeast wind had doomed them rods ahead; it swept—it annihilated—without quarter. it scattered the half-clad group of refugees to shelter across big shanty brook upon whose opposite shore, as yet untouched, they re-gathered to watch—out of the way.
it began to drizzle—a drizzle of no importance, but it cooled the faces of those who were ill.
in an hour big shanty brook had sacrificed three miles of its shore in self-defence. its bend above the nodding cedars—where thayor had killed his deer—had succeeded in turning the course of the fire. the shore upon which the refugees stood was untouched. the brook in the chaos of running fire had saved their lives.
still the fire roared on and although the torrent kept it at bay it went wild in the bordering wilderness. the burned camp was now a forgotten incident in this devilish course of flame. the northeast wind had not failed. the woods became a fire opal—opaque in smoke, with the red glint of innumerable trees glowing in gleaming strata, marking the course of the wind. many a bird fluttered and dropped in a vain effort to escape from the heat—the heat of a blast furnace. the hedgehog being lazy and loath to move—lay dead—simmering in his fat. the kingfisher jeered in safety—never before had he seen so many little dead fish. it was a gala day for him. they stuck against charred branches conveniently in shallow, out-of-the-way pools. he sat perched on the top of a giant hemlock chattering over his good luck. the chipmunk, at the first sinister glare, had skittered away to safety. he had not had a wink of sleep and his little nose was as black as his hide from running over charred timber. often it was a close squeak with him to keep from burning his feet.
nothing can tear through a forest like a fire. its speed is unbelievable; it strikes with the quickness of a cat—slipping out myriads of snake-like tongues right and left into the dryest places. it reasons—it decides—rarely it pardons. it is more dangerous than an incoming sea; the sea gives warning—the fire gives none. your death is only one of many—a burned detail. the forest fire has a leap which is subtle—ferocious. things it misses it goes back for until they crumble and are devoured at its edge. it cuts with the sweep of a red-hot scythe. all this occurs above the surface. what happens beneath is worse. it gnaws with the tenacity of a cancer deep into the ground, lingering hidden until suspicion has passed; then it asserts itself in a new outbreak in places least suspected. when it is all over the region lies desolate for years. it becomes a waste, a tangle of briers—pitiful upstarts of trees and burned stumps.
had it not been for the trapper's and the clown's forethought the fugitives would have fared worse. they had managed to rescue a nondescript collection of clothing, blankets, mackintoshes, socks, brogans and two teamsters' overcoats from the partly destroyed lower shanty. in the storehouse adjoining they, with blakeman's assistance, found three hams, matches, a sack of flour, some tea, half a sack of beans and a few cooking utensils. everything else had been stolen, including possibly the new stock of provisions thayor had telegraphed for, the debris of two new boxes and the gray ashes of excelsior giving little doubt that the new provisions had arrived. holt and skinner had only time to bundle these valuables together when the fire reached them. heavily loaded they managed to regain the others keeping along the edge of the torrent.
alice thayor presented a strange appearance; a pair of lumberjack's trousers, a mackinaw shirt, rough woollen socks, a pair of brogans and one of the teamster's overcoats, its collar turned up against her dishevelled hair, had transformed her into a vagabond. she was still weak from shock, but she went to work with margaret and annette, brewing a pail of tea, while thayor, holcomb and the rest straightened out their weird bivouac in the acrid opal haze. the clown was again busy with his fry-pan, the old dog watching him with bloodshot eyes.
there was little or no conversation during the preparation of that hurried meal. when at last it was ready blakeman started to serve it. thayor caught his butler's eye and motioned him to a seat beside him.
"you are as hungry as the rest of us," he said with an effort; "there's no need of formality here, blakeman." he glanced with a peculiar, weary smile from one to another of the little group squatting around the improvised meal, and his voice faltered.
"big shanty is gone," he resumed; "but i thank god it was no worse. whatever is in store for us we must share. what that will be nobody can tell, but it's going to be a hard experience and we must meet it. it would be sheer folly to attempt to get clear of all this by way of morrison's; that road is completely cut off—am i right, holt?"—and he turned to the trapper.
the old man, who had eaten sparingly and in silence, raised his head.
"yes, ye'r right, mr. thayor, but it won't do for us to stay whar we be no longer 'n we're obleeged to, that's sartain. them hell-hounds ain't done yit. yer life ain't safe," he added slowly.
alice thayor gave a little gasp, riveting her frightened gaze on the speaker. margaret turned and looked at her mother with trembling lips; then she patted alice's hand affectionately. annette began to cry.
"it's hard to tell ye the truth, friend," continued the old man, "but i might as well tell ye now. there ain't nothin' left for us to do but to git out o' this hell-hole as quick as god'll let us. we got plenty of things in our favour——no, sir, it ain't as bad as it might be with them woods full of smoke. thar's a railroad over thar"—he continued, nodding to the wilderness beyond them. "i cal'late we could make the railroad in, say, four days. let's see—bear pond—as fur as the leetle still water; then over them green mount'ins and through alder swamp."
"and it's clear goin', hite," interposed the clown, "as fur as buck pond. i was in thar once with the survey." holcomb did not speak; it was a country which he had never entered.
"i had a trappin' shanty at buck pond once," continued holt, "most thirty years ago. i knowed that country in them days as well as i know my hat and i presume likely it ain't changed. a day from buck pond, steady travellin', ought, in my idee, to git us out to the cars. i'll do my best to git ye thar."
thus it was hurriedly decided that the trapper should lead the way. holcomb suggested that he and the trapper should return to the burned camp in the hope, if possible, of finding something left which might be of use on the journey. they were sadly in need of an axe; the dull hatchet they had found in the cook's shanty they knew would prove next to useless. so holcomb and holt set off at once for the scene of the disaster while the rest got together into more practical carrying shape all that they possessed, ready for a start immediately on their return.
soon holcomb and the trapper were trudging about in the stifling heat of the ruins; they had drenched themselves to the waist in the brook and were thus enabled to make a hurried search within the fire zone. the first ruins they came upon were the stables—not a horse had escaped.
although they found it impossible to approach the still blazing ruins of the main camp, they discovered among the smouldering, charred timbers of holcomb's cabin the blade of a double-bitted axe, its helve burned off. a few rods further on, in the blinding smoke, they found a keg of nails. the only things the flames had left around them were of iron. an iron reservoir lay on its side where it had fallen; twisted girders loomed above the cauldron of desultory flame, marking the rectangle of the main camp. they shovelled the hot nails and the blades of the two axes into a blackened tin bucket and started back to the brook.
the trapper led. he had gone about a dozen rods farther on when he halted abruptly, peering under the palm of his hand at a smouldering log ahead of him.
"god almighty!" he cried, staring back at holcomb, as he pointed to the smoking log.
holcomb, with stinging eyes, saw a claw of a hand thrust above the log. the bones of the wrist were visible; the rest resembled a misfit glove, the fingers hanging in shreds. the hand connected with the body of a man lying close against the opposite side of the log. the legs from the knees down were gone; the remainder of the man was a mass of burned flesh and rags. near the stump of the right arm lay a charred kerosene can.
