The man knew that hollow well. At the bottom flowed Codler’s Creek, a larger stream than West Brook. Indeed, West Brook joined its waters with Codler’s Creek. The fire must have come into this cut, too. Then, in all probability, a couple of thousand acres of standing timber were afire on this side of the mountain!
Ten rods further on the horse snorted, stumbled, and tried to stop. A writhing, flaming snake—a burning branch—plunged down through the smoke directly ahead.
“Go on!” shouted Joseph Stagg, with a sharpness that would ordinarily have set Cherry off at a gallop.
But, as the snorting creature still shied, the man seized the whip and lashed poor Cherry cruelly along his flank.
At that the horse went mad. He plunged forward, leaped the blazing brand, and galloped down the road at a perilous gait. The man tried neither to soothe him nor to retard the pace.
The smoke swirled around them. The driver could not see ten feet beyond the horse’s nose. If a tree should fall across the track, disaster was certain.
But this catastrophe did not occur. Within a few furlongs, however, flames danced ahead on either side of the road.
“The bridge!” gasped Joseph Stagg.
The bridge over the creek was a wooden structure with a rustic railing on either hand. Flames had seized upon this and were streaming up from the rails.
It was fortunate that there was so little wind. The flames were perpendicular and rose, as Joseph Stagg sat in the buckboard, higher than his head.