What she had suffered, the things she had just done, had been in vain.
“Go back,” he said, dully. “It isn’t safe out there. Go back.”
“It isn’t safe for you—for you. It’s planned to have you come—alone.”
He moved away from her. She forced herself to rise.
“Then I’ll go with you,” she said.
“Go back!” he commanded.
“No,” she said, and tottered on.
He set his teeth, turned his face away from her, and went on, unmindful of her sobbing, gasping breaths. At one moment they saw a redness in the sky; saw the darkness ahead fluttering like a waved cloth.
“Fire,” Jim muttered, and began to run. He was too late—Crab Creek Trestle was in names!
As best she could Marie followed. He gained, but she did not falter, urged herself to her utmost. Ahead of them the trestle came into view, wreathed in flames, flames that leaped and writhed and strained upward as if seeking to be released from bonds that held them to earth. The trees and bushes about seemed to rise and fall with the swelling of the tongues of fire. In the midst the framework of the trestle stood black, stark, startlingly vivid.