Her arms still pinioned, Alice sat waiting for the end. It was hard to be brave in the ever-nearing presence of the flames. If there had been a cheering word from one she loved, one touch of a friendly hand, the moments would not seem so terrible and long. But she was helpless and alone, and all hope of aid was gone.
The way out of the fire trap was irremediably closed. True, there was a territory of large extent behind her not yet burned over, and she knew that if Hugh and his flock still lived they were in that space. In all directions raged the fire, and now the flames had stretched their terrible barrier clear across the little canyon in which she was a prisoner. Even if by some miracle her arms should be freed she could not escape. No human being could pass that flaming wall in front and yet live. Because she was in the deepest part of the canyon, its shadowed mouth where it met the broader canyon of Silver Creek, the fire had not yet burned down to her, but by no thousandth chance could this last little space of forest be spared. A few moments or many: the issue was unmistakable in the end. If the fire continued its present slow advance, perhaps the fevered cycle of her blood might be repeated many times; but at any instant a falling pine top from the flaming forest above might catch the tree against which she was bound and bring the end. There was only one thing left to pray for, now. There was still the fond wish that by some miracle the passing might come swiftly, that her soul might wing its way swift and free, not struggling from a pain-racked body, out of this dreadful land of glaring sky and glaring fire. Perhaps the out trail might be level and easy, after all.
Her thoughts no longer held quite true. Strange fancies swept her; and back of them was the clear, rational, unconfused voice of hope that perhaps these portended an unconsciousness that would spare her the cruelty of the end. The night must be far advanced by now, she thought. Uncounted centuries had come and dragged away since Hugh had pressed his lips to hers and she had ridden into the greenwood. The heat of the fire above her grew steadily fiercer, and she saw with a strange sorrow that the little mountain flowers—hardy, lovely things that had weathered the drought—were withered and dying. The smoke poured in billowing storms across the mouth of the canyon. The bark of the tree felt scorching hot against her bare arms. And still the frightful glare of the sky lighted up, as if in dreadful enchantment, the little space of unburned forest where she was confined.
And now the jaws of the flame were closing behind her. Only a little island was left, and any instant the faint night wind would blow the red tongues into the thicket beside her. It was the end. Perhaps the smoke—rarely unbearably dense, rangers know, even at the very edge of the forest fire—might bring unconsciousness after all. She felt herself drifting.
Sobbing words were at her lips. “Be merciful,” she pleaded to the Powers of whom mercy is the eternal spirit. “Don’t make it last any longer! Let me go to sleep——” Yet no ear, it seemed to her, could hear her above the frightful roar of the fire. And even her arms were bound so that she could not stretch them up in supplication.
And it was as if her prayer had been heard. At least she was not to endure the end in loneliness. A sharp, high bark pierced through the angry crackle and roar of the fire, and Shep leaped to her side. Only a narrow path remained between the two converging walls of flame behind her: a dreadful place of blasting heat and blinding smoke and darting flame tongues, yet the dog had sprung through like a winged creature. Behind him, still brave and strong and enduring, came his master.
He also sprang bravely through the closing barrier of flame. A great spirit of undying strength was on him, and the red arms reached for him in vain. He swung to her side, a dim, strange figure that at first seemed only a figment of fancy born in her prayers. He did not speak to her. Only strangled sobs were at his lips. His white-bladed hunting knife flashed at her bonds.
He snatched off his coat, wrapping it in one motion about her head and shoulders. He knew how those fire tongues he had just passed through would receive her tresses. And then she felt muscular arms go around her. As lightly and as strongly as if on the wings of Death itself he lifted her to his breast. He sprang forward with all his strength. And the three of them fought their way back—through the gates of peril—to the last remaining island in the sea of flame.