Far as the eye could see in that ruddy light, tortured and distorted by the flashes of storm above, was an ocean of fire spread out. The crowning billows of smoke, like titanic foam-crests, rolled away upward and onward before them. They, too, were ruddy-tinted by the reflection from below. They crowded in every direction. They swept along abreast of them, they rose up behind them, and the distance was lost in their choking midst. The scorching air was laden to suffocation by the odors of burning resin. She knew they were on a trail, a narrow, confined trail, which was lined by unburnt woods. And the marvel of it filled her.
“These woods are untouched,” she said.
Again Buck laughed. It was a grim laugh which had no mirth, but yet was it dashed by a wonderful recklessness.
“So far,” he said. Then he added, with a quick look up at the belching smoke, “If they weren’t I don’t guess we’d be here now. Say, it’s God’s mercy sure this trail heads from the farm southeast. Further on it swings away at a fork. One trail goes due east, an’ the other sou’west. One of ’em’s sure cut by the fire. An’ the other—wal, it’s a gamble with luck.”
“It’s the only way out?” The girl’s eyes were wide with her question and the knowledge of the meaning of a reply in the affirmative.
“That’s so.”
“We’re like—rats in a trap.”
A sharp oath escaped the man’s lips.
“We ain’t beat yet,” he cried fiercely.
The reply was the heart of the man speaking. Joan understood it. And from it she understood more. She understood the actual peril in the midst of which they were.