Before he had ridden a mile the fire was flaming in high billows behind him, and the smoke, black and thick, filled the sky.
Clayton began to be somewhat alarmed.
In desperation he had entered this grassy land and had fired the grass, but he seemed not to have bettered his position, in spite of the blaze. Indeed, if the fire ringed him in, or overtook him, his situation would be worse than before.
Though his face paled, he spoke hopefully to the girl who clung to him.
The Blackfeet were still unseen; and, indeed could hardly have been seen now through the pall of smoke and the billowing flame, even if they had come riding straight down from the hills in chase.
The horse was a gallant animal, and was standing up splendidly to the work, yet the strain was beginning to tell. Its sides were heaving, its head was sunk low, and its whole body was covered with a white lather of sweat. Its nostrils gaped wide and red as it plunged onward.
If the horse had been fresh, the hopes of Bruce Clayton would have mounted high, for its gait was faster than the running advance of the fire; but the horse was becoming exhausted. It had been tired even before he encountered the young Indian chief, and since then he had driven it hard.
Three miles away, and lying along the rocky rim of the cañon which held the river, was a long strip of woodland.
On the other side were the hills.
The open, grassy country lay straight ahead between these two.