Along the horizon the glow was growing rapidly. A tongue of yellow flame shot high in the air. A long dead, thoroughly seasoned tree, standing at the forks of the trail, had caught fire and the flame flared forth from its top like a banner.
The prairie was afire!
“Glory to Jehoshaphat!” groaned Mack Hinkman, again. “Who done that?”
“Goodness!” gasped Pratt, quite horror-stricken.
Frances gathered up the cooking implements and flung them into the wagon. She had hobbled Molly and the grey pony; now she ran for them.
“Got that axle fixed, Mack?” she shouted over her shoulder.
“Not for no rough traveling, I tell ye sure, Miss Frances!” complained the teamster. “That was a bad crack. Have to wait to fix it proper at Peckham’s.” Then he added, sotto voce: “If we get the blamed thing there at all.”
“Don’t say that, man!” gasped Pratt Sanderson. “Surely there’s not much danger?”
“This here spot will be scorched like an overdone flapjack in half an hour,” declared Hinkman. “We got to git!”
Frances heard him, distant as she was.