He nodded in the direction of the fiercely advancing flames. A spark nipped his cheek. Round about him he saw tiny jets of smoke rising from among the dry herbage.
"It's coming," he said. "The water won't stop it. Quick!" he cried. "Your wrists!" He seized the handcuffs and adroitly whipped them free. "There!" he nodded, "I trust you, see? You could dash off without me now."
Pierre Roche drew a deep breath of relief. He looked down into the sergeant's eyes.
"Dat is true," he acknowledged. "But I give you my parole. I go wid you. I am you prisoner. I no try for mek my escape. No. I go to my punishment. Quick! Quick!"
He held out his blue and swollen hands to help the soldier policeman to mount.
The mare sped on again, panting hoarsely, snorting, swaying sometimes, but never faltering, never slackening her onward rush, until, at last, she reached safety on a wide stretch of blackened earth, where a previous fire had stripped the prairie.
And late on the following morning Sergeant Silk rode into Canmore and delivered up his prisoner at the barracks.
"Ah!" declared the commandant with satisfaction. "I am glad it was you who arrested the rascal, Sergeant. And single-handed, too. You look some jaded. I hope you have had no difficulties?"
"No, sir," returned Silk, "nothing to speak of."