It was now a mad rush, each man for himself. The crowd had scattered to the right and the left of two patches of brushwood that were blazing fiercely.
At last Joe found himself face to face with the belt of fire. It stretched far to the left and the right.
“No loophole there,” he thought grimly, but a moment later saw a spot where the brushwood had already burnt to the ground. The spot was a hundred feet wide and still hot and smoking, yet he did not hesitate, but leaped over it with the best rate of speed that he could command.
With his eyes half filled with smoke, the young pioneer could see but little, and consequently he did not notice a sink-hole in the very center of the burnt-over tract. Down he went into this morass up to his waist, and there he stuck as firmly as if in so much glue.
It was a moment of peril, and it must be admitted that Joe’s heart sank within him. The smoke was rolling all around him, and he expected to be smothered in short order. In vain he tugged to get of the sink-hole. The more he tried the deeper he appeared to sink.
“Help! help!” he cried, with all the vigor that he could command. “Help! I am fast in a sink-hole!”
Again and again he cried out, but nobody appeared to hear him, and through the drifting and swirling smoke he could see next to nothing.
In the meantime the hunters were rushing in half a dozen directions. The majority were following the watercourse, and by bending low in this they managed to pass the belt of fire. The Indians had piled some brushwood over the stream and set it on fire, but this was kicked away by the running settlers.
Joe felt his senses leaving him, when he fancied he saw a man running close to where he was held a prisoner.
“Help!” he called feebly. “Please help me!”