The Timber Treasure

by Frank Lillie Pollock

He had been gone no more than half an hour when Tom’s nose caught the smell of cedar smoke. It was coming down the wind, a sharp, aromatic odor, growing stronger momentarily. He could not see any smoke, however, and did not pay much attention until in another half-hour he perceived a dark cloud rising over the woods in the west and driving across the tree-tops.

The wind would carry it straight toward the old barn, but even now he did not feel much uneasiness, for a spring fire in the woods seldom burns long or does much damage. But the smoke continued to increase in volume, and the smell of burning to grow more pronounced. Tom wondered that Charlie did not come back. At last he went over to the river, carried his canoe up past the rapid, and paddled up the stream to look at the fire.

In half a mile the smoke made him stop. It was chokingly dense, seeming to fill all the woods in front of him. He saw not a flash of flame, though ashes and live sparks were falling thick, and he could see them driving in swirls overhead on the gale.

At this rate it might go clear over the barn and burn him out. It dawned upon Tom that perhaps McLeod had fired the woods. At that time of year a casual spark could hardly have started so wide a blaze. He let the canoe drop down-stream for a few hundred yards and then rushed into the woods to see if there was any chance of the fire being checked.

The smoke of green wood and cedar leaves was still choking and blinding. He was well in front of the fire now, but a great wisp of flaming bark dropped from the air almost at his side into a tangle of half-dead spruces. It flashed up with a roar. Flames drove out streaming into the green shrubbery, and the resinous leaves of the evergreens sizzled and burned like paper. He had to draw back again. A fresh center of conflagration was started; and he realized that under this roaring gale the fire was bound to sweep unchecked through the woods, burning whatever would burn, jumping spots too green or too damp; and nothing was likely to stop it until it reached the lake.

He tore back to the river—just in time to save his canoe, for a cedar bush had caught fire close beside it. Jumping in, he shot down-stream. He would have to try to save the barn—save his supplies, at any rate. But he had hopes that the beaver meadow would act as a fire-break.

Down the stream he shot, through smoke so dense that he could scarcely see to avoid the rocks and turns of the channel. He lost time by having to portage around the rapid where Charlie had come to grief. Arriving at the usual landing, he observed that Charlie’s canoe was gone. The Indian had evidently returned, secured his canoe, and fled.

Tom rushed across to the barn. Even here the smoke was growing thick, and hot ashes and sparks were flying far overhead. Back in the woods fire and wind roared together. A hasty glance into the barn showed that the blankets were gone, most of the food, the kettles, his own dunnage sack. Charlie had salvaged the place already.

Tom crammed a few small loose articles into his pockets and hesitated. If he had water, if he could keep the roof wet, it might be possible to save the barn. But the nearest water was fifty yards away, and he had nothing to carry it in. Sparks were falling every moment more thickly. The barn would have to take its chance; he would better try to rejoin Charlie; and he ran back to the river and paddled down toward the lake.

Waves were running high and white-capped over Little Coboconk in the strong wind, and so dense a haze lay over the water that it was impossible to see the other shore. Tom lay close to the river mouth for some time, disliking to venture out upon the rough water. Smoke began to roll heavily over the trees along the shore, and at last he paddled out, up through the shelter of the narrow water neck joining the lakes, and into Big Coboconk.