All at once a crackle behind him caused him to glance quickly over his shoulder. He saw to his terror that a little arm of the fire had spread here, too. He whirled his horse, then with a savage oath lashed down with his quirt.
Yet plenty of time remained, by riding swiftly, to save himself. There was no need for fear. He would go straight to his home, and from its windows he could watch the progress of the fire. Yet the crackle behind him got on his nerves, and he struck his horse again.
And this second blow was a serious mistake. The horse was already running at a swift pace down the narrow trail. There is a limit to the speed a horse can run with safety in the Idaho mountains, and that limit was already reached. Beyond that point comes only panic and blind frenzy. The horse leaped forward to the wildest pace it knew.
The sweat leaped from Fargo’s dark brow, and slowly his self-mastery came back to him. There was no need of this wild flight. He had plenty of time. He started to check the horse.
But at that instant the sinister forces of the wild—always lurking in ambush for such as Fargo—saw their chance. And the forest-demons do not need mighty weapons. Their agents are the Little Things, the covert trivialities that few men notice. In this case the resistless force that overwhelmed him was only a furry, half-blind creature of the dust—a rodent such as ordinarily Fargo would press his heel upon and crush.
The rodent had been enlarging his winter home, and he had dug away some of the earth from under the trail. The horse was running too wildly to be careful, his hoof broke through the little shelf of dirt, and he tripped and hurled headlong.
To the rodent, the disaster meant further hours of toil—digging tirelessly till his rooms were clean again. Through some incredible chance—perhaps because the great god Manitou had saved him for further work—the horse was uninjured, and soon regained his feet. But Fargo was hurled to the earth as the horse fell, and he only knew a great darkness that transcended and smothered him.
As if they were trying to restore his nervous forces for some great ordeal, the forest gods granted him a full hour of peaceful, restful slumber. But it was doubtful mercy. At the end of that hour they laughed—a sound not greatly different from the crackle of a great fire, and began to call him into consciousness.
First they brought evil dreams, and Fargo started and murmured in his sleep, tossing a little on his bed of pine needles. His look of triumph was gone from his brutal features now. Instead, there was a curious drawing and strain—and for all the sudden heat of the early night, cold drops on his brow. Still his eyes wouldn’t open. He fought hard, and his quivering body rustled the dead leaves.
Curious streaks of light slashed before his eyeballs now—all colors, and they filled him with horror. But slowly remembrance returned to him. He had set the fire, and now it was time to ride away. He mustn’t get caught in his own trap. He rallied all the powers of his spirit and fought for consciousness.