In soft patches
of the earth he found footprints deeply made and wide apart, the
footprints of hurrying men, telling him Black Roger and the Broken
Man were both ahead of him, and that Black Roger was running when
he crossed the clearing.
The footprints led him to a still more indistinct trail in the
farther forest, a trail which went straight into the face of the
fire ahead. He followed it. The distant murmur had grown into a
low moaning over the tree-tops, and with it the wind was coming
stronger, and the smoke thicker. For a mile he continued along the
path, and then he stopped, knowing he had come to the dead-line.
Over him was a swirling chaos. The fire-wind had grown into a roar
before which the tree-tops bent as if struck by a gale, and in the
air he breathed he could feel a swiftly growing heat. For a space
he stood there, breathing quickly in the face of a mighty peril.
Where had Black Roger and the Broken Man gone? What mad impulse
could it be that dragged them still farther into the path of
death? Or had they struck aside from the trail? Was he alone in
danger?
As if in answer to the questions there came from far ahead of him
a loud cry.
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