“Let him stay where he is; we’ll burn the house,” cried a third.
This was agreed to by the fellow’s companion demons.
They dragged several straw mattresses outside, and, closing the door, set fire to them.
The hut was old and as dry as a chip.
With fearful rapidity the fire grew until in a few minutes Sam’s cabin was wrapped in a shroud of flame.
No Indian ever died at the stake with more courage than did Denton—not a cry escaped him, even when the flames reached him.
A little figure dashed into the clearing and rushed toward the burning hut.
Strong arms grasped him and prevented him from entering.
“Poor Crackers!” and the creature threw himself on the ground and began to cry.