King Spruce Part 18

"I won't be penned that way!" yelled MacLeod. "I ain't no racc.o.o.n!"

But the bitter visage of the warden, the merciless flash of his gray eyes, and the glint of the rifle-barrel, swinging into line with his face, combined with the sudden remembrance that it was hinted that "Ladder" Lane was not always right in his head, drove the stubborn courage out of MacLeod. He slunk rather than walked into the cage with the mien of a whipped beast. The old man set the saplings one by one into place, and nailed them with vigorous hammer-blows.

"How long have I got to stay here, Lane?" he pleaded.

"Till I can turn you over to them who will put you where you belong for destroying State's property and interfering with a State officer."

The old man turned away and gazed out over the forest stretches between Jerusalem and Misery. MacLeod, clutching the bars of his cage with his left hand, looked, too.

It was no puny torching of the Misery huts that he was looking on, and he realized it with growing apprehensiveness as to his zeal in suppressing news.

Vast volumes of yellow smoke volleyed up over the crowns of the green growth. It was a racing fire--even those on Jerusalem could see that much across the six miles between. Spirals waved ahead like banners of a charging army. Its front broadened as the fire troops deployed to the flanks. Ahead and ever ahead fresh smoke-puffings marked the advance of the skirmish-line. Now here, now there, drove the cavalry charges of the conflagration, following slash-strewn roads and cuttings, while the dun smoke ripped the green of the maples and beeches.

"It's liable to interest Pulaski D. Britt somewhat when he finds out why Jerusalem lookout ain't callin' for a fire-posse," Lane remarked, bitterly.

The situation seemed to overwhelm the boss. He looked with straining gaze at the rush of the conflagration, and had no word for reply.

"But it may not all be loss for you," the old man proceeded, grimly.

"Perhaps the girl will be burned up--perhaps that was in your trade with Britt."

"I don't know what you mean about any girl," mumbled MacLeod, looking away from the old man's boring eyes.

"You're a liar again as well as a dirty whelp of a sneak."

Lane spat the words over his shoulder, stumping away, the bristle of his gray beard standing out like an angry porcupine's quills.

"I don't allow anybody to put them words on me!" roared MacLeod.

"You don't, heh?" Lane whirled and stumped back. He bent down and set his face close to the saplings, his eyes narrowing like a cat's, his nose wrinkling in mighty anger. "You can steal time paid for by Pulaski D. Britt, and hang around Misery Gore, and coax on an ignorant girl into a worse h.e.l.l than she's living in now"--he pointed a quivering finger at the smoke-wreathed valley--"when you know and I know, and everyone on these mountain-tops of the Umcolcus knows and gossips it with the settlements, that you've picked her up only to throw her farther into the wallow where you found her. It's the Ide girl you're courtin'. It's poor little Kate of Misery that you're killin'. There isn't another man in the north woods mean enough to steal from a girl as poor as she is--steal love and hope and faith. It's all she's got, MacLeod, and you've taken all."

The young man grunted a sullen oath.

"There's a lot I could say to you," raged Lane, "but I ain't going to waste time doing it. I'll simply express my opinion of you by--"

He spat squarely into the convulsed face of MacLeod, and went away into his cabin.

CHAPTER X

"LADDER" LANE'S SOIReE

"And down from off the mountains in the shooting sheets of flame The devils of Katahdin come to play their reg'lar game.

So 'tis: men hold tight! Pray for mornin' light!

Katahdin's caves are empty and h.e.l.l's broke loose to-night!"

--Ha'nt of Pamola.

As the hours of the day went on, Colin MacLeod, caged, helpless, set high on the bald brow of old Jerusalem, where every phase of the great fire was spread before his eyes, found abundant opportunity to curse himself for a fool. In time, of course, Attean or some other point would realize the extent of the conflagration and call for help. But now, hidden under Jerusalem and confined to the slash under the green trees, it was a racing ground-fire that crouched and ran. It came rapidly, but in a measure secretly. It showed a subtility of selection. It did not waste time on the green forest of beeches and maples. It was hurrying north towards its traditional prey. That prey was waiting for it, rooted on the slopes of Jerusalem and the Umcolcus, on the Attean and the Enchanted--the towering black growth of hemlock, pine, and spruce--the apple of Pulaski Britt's commercial eye--the hope of his a.s.sociates.

Once there, it would spring from its crouching race on the ground. It would climb the resinous trunks and torch and flare and rage and roar in the tinder-tops--a dreaded "crown-fire" that only the exhaustion of fuel or the rains of G.o.d would stop.

Attean would see that fire leaping past Jerusalem, and would swear and wonder and report too late.

Just now hours were as precious as days.

Men could do nothing at mid-day with the wind lashing behind. MacLeod knew well how that fire should be fought. But with men on the way ready to flank it at nightfall and work ahead of it with pick and shovel and beating branches of green--the winds stilled and the dews condensing--it could be conquered--it must be conquered then, if at all.

Woods fires sleep at night. The men who fight them may as well sleep at mid-day.

With the dropping of the sun and the sinking of the winds the fires drowse and flicker and smoulder. Then must one attack the monster; for at daybreak he is up, ravening and roaring and hungry.

And now--not even Britt's own crew of loggers at the foot of Jerusalem had word and warning. MacLeod bellowed appeals to be let out. He besought Lane to hurry down the mountain to camp. He howled frightful oaths and threats and abject promises.

At dusk the old man came out of his cabin, and brought bread and water and bacon to his captive without a word. He fed him with as much unconcern as he brought browse to the tethered bull moose and distributed provender suited to the various tastes of his menagerie.

The darkness settled in the valleys first, and one by one fire-dottings p.r.i.c.ked out--blazing junipers and the stunted new growth of evergreen.

From Jerusalem the great expanse seemed like a mighty city, its windows alight, its streets and avenues illuminated gloriously.

MacLeod, silenced except for an occasional hoa.r.s.e quack of appeal, paced his little cage, despairing.

"Ladder" Lane sat on the flat roof silent as a spectre. So the hours dragged past.

"I thought so!" grunted the old man at last. "That's what I've been sitting up for."

From his eyry he saw a light flickering in the stunted growth far down Jerusalem, zigzagging nearer. At last it emerged and came across the ledges--a flare of hissing birch bark stuck into a cleft stick. There were several men hastening along in the circle of its radiance. Lane could hear from afar their gruntings of exhaustion.

"If I ain't mistook, it's your friend Britt," remarked the old man, maliciously, as he pa.s.sed MacLeod's cage on his way to meet the visitors.

And it was Britt--Britt with his hat in his hand, perspiration streaming into his beard, his stertorous breath rumbling in his throat. Lane knew the man who bore the torch as Bennett Rodliff, high sheriff of the county.

"It's been--G.o.d!--awful work--but we've--come round the east--edge of it, Lane," panted Britt. Commanding general in the grim conflict, he had been willing to burst his heart in order to establish headquarters in the one spot from which he could mobilize his forces and direct their tactics. "How many men have you ordered in, Lane?"

"Not a man!"

"Not a--not a--you stand there and tell me you haven't reported and called for every man that Attean and Squaw can reach!" He began to curse shrilly.

"You'd better save your wire edge, Mr. Britt," counselled Lane. "You're going to need it. Come here till I show you something."

One of the sheriff's men lighted a fresh sheet of bark at the dying flare of the other, and Lane led the way to the cage, where MacLeod peered desperately between the saplings.

"Just a moment, Mr. Britt!" broke in the warden, again checking the lumber baron's fury. "This man came up here to-day with what he said were your orders not to report that fire, and--"

"That fire!" roared Britt, fairly beside himself. "Why, you devilish, infernal--"

"A moment, I say! When I set up my heliograph he kicked it off the roof.

There it lies just as it fell. You and he can settle your part of it! As for my part of it, I have arrested him by my authority as a fire warden.