Crashing forward, heedless of the lash of branches, he forced his path through the densest thicket. As he advanced he caught glimpses of fire and saw sparks leaping among the trees. He passed through the intervening stretch of forest, and stumbled to the edge of an ax-hewn clearing. In the middle of the snowy ground stood a log building, with smoke and flames spouting upward from the walls and roof. The surrounding area was illuminated with the brightness of day, and at a glance Dexter identified the place. He had circled back to the scene of murder. The cabin had been fired, and was blazing in the forest like a lighted torch.
CHAPTER VI
THE DOORWAY OF DREAD
With the hot glare beating back in his face, Dexter stood with blinking eyes, hearing the hiss of falling sparks and the fierce crackle of the mounting flames. Tongues of fire lapped around the windows and darted angrily from the crevices between the logs. As he peered through the pitchy black smoke, a gust of flame lashed out at the corner of the cabin, and he saw that the door was open.
He remembered closing and wedging the door fast when he left the place a while before. It would seem that a visitor had been there some time during his absence. His glance ranged swiftly around the clearing, and came back to the doorway. For a second longer he hesitated, and then suddenly left the concealment of the trees and strode forward across the open ground.
The snow near the cabin had melted and formed pools of muddy water. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket, wetted the fabric, and tied a protecting mask over his nose and mouth. Then he pushed across the threshold into the suffocation of smoke and heat and showering embers.
He was groping his way towards the center of the room, feeling for the table which stood near the fireplace, when he collided blindly in the hazy dark with a soft substance of flesh—something that moved, and breathed, and was alive.
His hands closed instinctively, and he found himself gripping a slight, lithe, human figure that gasped and struggled for release with the fluttering fright of a captured bird. A curl of flame darted out through the smoke, and in the flash of light Dexter had a momentary vision of a youthful, grime-streaked face, a waving tangle of hair, and a pair of luminous dark eyes that stared wildly under the shadowed curve of thickly fringing lashes. It was a woman—a girl—and his startled intuition told him she was the fugitive who had led him the long chase in the forest.
He saw her full lips tremble apart as the smoke cloud rolled about them, heard her stifled cry of fear. Her breath came quick upon his cheek, and he could feel the rapid pulse throb in her straining wrists. She writhed in his grasp, fighting to free herself. He had not counted on the supple strength of softly rounded muscles that desperation called suddenly and fiercely to use.
Before he could overcome his normal reluctance to hurt a weaker being, she had thrust her elbow under his chin; and as his head snapped back before the unexpected attack, she broke the grip of his fingers, wriggled out from the crook of his arm, stumbled beyond his reach, and ran for the doorway.