While she looked, one part of her brain was numbed by the sight, but the other part was thinking rapidly. This was not the real fire. This 161 was only one great paw of fire that shot out before the body, to sweep in any foolish thing that did not at first alarm hurry down to the level lands and safety.
The body of the fire, she was sure, was coming on in a solid front beyond the hill. It would not yet have struck the road up which the Bishop was hurrying. He might think that he could skirt past it and get into French Village before it should cross the road. But she was sure he could not do so. He would go on until he found it squarely before him. Then he would have to turn back. And here was this great limb of fire already stretching out behind him. In five minutes he would be cut off. The formation of the hills had sent the wind whirling down through a gap and carrying one stream of fire away ahead of the rest. The Bishop did not know the country to the north of the road. If he left the road he could only flounder about and wander aimlessly until the fire closed in upon him.
Ruth’s decision was taken on the instant. The two women did not need her. They would know enough to drive on down to safety when they saw the fire surely coming. There was a man gone unblinking into a peril from which he would not know how to escape. He had gone to save life. He had gone to prevent crime. If he stayed in the road she could find him and lead him 162 out to the north and probably to safety. If he did not stay in the road, well, at least, she could only make the attempt.
Brom Bones went flying along the slope of the road towards his home. For the first time in his life, he felt the cut of a whip on his flanks––to make him go faster. He did not know what it meant. Nothing like that had ever been a part of Brom Bones’ scheme of life, for he had always gone as fast as he was let go. But it did not need the stroke of the whip to madden him.
Down across the slope of the hill in front of him he saw a great, red terror racing towards the road which he travelled. If he could not understand the girl’s words, he could feel the thrill of rising excitement in her voice as she urged him on, saying over and over:
“You can make it, Brom! I know you can! I never struck you this way before, did I? But it’s for life––a good man’s life! You can make it. I know you can make it. I wouldn’t ask you to if I didn’t know. You can make it! It won’t hurt us a bit. It can’t hurt us! Bromie, dear, I tell you it can’t hurt us. It just can’t!”
She crouched out over the horse’s shoulder, laying her weight upon her hands to even it for the horse. She stopped striking him, for she saw that neither terror nor punishment could drive him faster than he was going. He was giving her the best of his willing heart and fleet body.
But would it be enough? Fast as she raced along the road she saw that red death whirling down the hillside, to cross the road at a point just above her home. Could she pass that point before the fire came? She did not know. And when she came to within a hundred yards of where the fire would strike the road she still did not know whether she could pass it. Already she could feel the hot breath of it panting down upon her. Already showers of burning leaves and branches were whirling down upon her head and shoulders. If her horse should hesitate or bolt sidewise now they would both be burned to death. The girl knew it. And, crouching low, talking into his mane, she told him so. Perhaps he, too, knew it. He did not falter. Head down, he plunged straight into the blinding blast that swept across the road.
A wave of heavy, choking smoke struck him in the face. He reeled and reared a little, and a moaning whinny of fright broke from him. But he felt the steady, strong little hands in his mane and he plunged on again, through the smoke and out into the good air.