The mist of smoke was deepening. The smell of burning was in the air. The prisoner suddenly displayed alarm.
"For God's sake get out of here," he cried, in a sudden access of panic. "The place is afire. The cellars under are full of explosives."
"That's how I figgered."
Kars' rejoinder was calmly spoken. He pointed at the half-breed.
"See to him, Charley," he said. And he waited till the Indian had roughly dragged the wounded man into the open. Then he turned to the panic-stricken trader.
"Now you," he commanded, and pointed at the doorway.
The night sky was lit with a dull red glow. A fierce fire was raging on the rising ground beyond the Indian village. A great concourse of dusky figures, men, and women, and pappooses were gathered at a safe distance watching with awe the riot of that terror which haunted their lives.
The whole village was awake, and had turned out to witness the calamity which had befallen. Others had joined them. Those others who had contemplated the destruction of the white invaders down in the river gorge. Their crude minds held no clue to the cause of the thing which had happened. Each and all wondered and feared at the non-appearance of the men who led them. But none dared approach the fire. None thought to extend help to its possible victims. Fire was a demon they feared. It was a demon they were ready enough to invoke to aid them in war. But his wrath turned against themselves was something to be utterly dreaded. So they stood and watched—from afar off.
There were others watching, too. But they were still farther off. They were standing on a high ground in the shelter of a bluff of trees. Their direction was towards the river, where the Indian had led them earlier in the night.
The fire licked up towards the heavy sky in jagged tongues of flame. The Indians were held fascinated by their own terror. The others were waiting for other reasons.