“There’s plenty more trouble ahead,” said the keeper, in a low voice. “Look at this belt, sir!” and he drew from his pocket a leather belt, unrolled it, and pointed at a name scratched on the buckle. The name was “Abe Storm.”
“Where did that come from?” demanded Burleson.
“The man that fired the vlaie grass dropped it. Barry picked it up on patrol. There’s the evidence, sir. The belt lay on the edge of the burning grass.”
“You mean he dropped it last night, and Barry found it where the grass had been afire?”
“No, sir; that belt was dropped two hours since. The grass was afire again.”
The color left Burleson’s face, then came surging back through the tightening skin of the set jaws.
“Barry put out the blaze, sir. He’s on duty there now with Chase and Connor. God help Abe Storm if they get him over the sights, Mr. Burleson.”
Burleson’s self-command was shaken. He reached out his hand for the belt, flung away his axe, and walked up the slope of the knoll where the fire-warden sat calmly watching him.
For a few moments he stood before her, teeth set, in silent battle with that devil’s own temper which had never been killed in him, which he knew now could never be ripped out and exterminated, which must, must lie chained—chained while he himself stood tireless guard, knowing that chains may break.
After a while he dropped to the ground beside her, like a man dead tired. “Tell me about these people,” he said.