It was not the distance of the fire that so much troubled me, as its direction. The wind blew right in our teeth, and the smoke was travelling with the wind. The conflagration must be ahead—directly upon the trail!
The smoke grew thicker and thicker—ahead, the sky appeared slashed with a lurid light; I fancied I could hear the crackling of the flames. The air felt hot and dry: a choking sensation was produced in our throats, and one and all were hacking and gasping for breath.
So dark had it suddenly become—or rather so blinded were we with the smoke—we could scarcely make out the trail.
My followers would have stopped, but I urged them on. With voice and example, I urged them on—myself leading the way. My heart was too full of anxiety to make pause.
Where in all this were Rube and Garey? We had come far and fast; we should now be nearly up with them—they could not be much ahead.
I halloed as we advanced.
“Hullow!” came the response, in the rough baritone of the younger trapper.
We hurried forward in the direction of the voice.
The path conducted to an opening in the chapparal—in the centre of which, through the smoke, we could distinguish the forms of men and horses.
With eager eyes, I scanned the group; a glance was sufficient: there were only two of each—only the trackers.