“If I ain’t mistook, it’s your friend Britt,” remarked the old man, maliciously, as he passed MacLeod’s cage on his way to meet the visitors.
And it was Britt—Britt with his hat in his hand, perspiration streaming into his beard, his stertorous breath rumbling in his throat. Lane knew the man who bore the torch as Bennett Rodliff, high sheriff of the county.
“It’s been—God!—awful work—but we’ve—come round the east—edge of it, Lane,” panted Britt. Commanding general in the grim conflict, he had been willing to burst his heart in order to establish headquarters in the one spot from which he could mobilize his forces and direct their tactics. “How many men have you ordered in, Lane?”
“Not a man!”
“Not a—not a—you stand there and tell me you haven’t reported and called for every man that Attean and Squaw can reach!” He began to curse shrilly.
“You’d better save your wire edge, Mr. Britt,” counselled Lane. “You’re going to need it. Come here till I show you something.”
One of the sheriff’s men lighted a fresh sheet of bark at the dying flare of the other, and Lane led the way to the cage, where MacLeod peered desperately between the saplings.
“Just a moment, Mr. Britt!” broke in the warden, again checking the lumber baron’s fury. “This man came up here to-day with what he said were your orders not to report that fire, and—”
“That fire!” roared Britt, fairly beside himself. “Why, you devilish, infernal—”