It did not seem hardly safe to sleep under the circumstances, but Dyke Darrel was very tired, having been without much rest for several nights, and he was on the present occasion extremely drowsy. Resolving not to fall into a deep slumber, the detective sat with his revolver at his side, and went off into the land of dreams before he was aware of it. Dyke Darrel slept heavily. A crackling sound outside did not reach his ear with sufficient force to waken him. A face peered in at the window, dark and sinister, but the sleeping detective heeded it not. Another face, girded about with bristling red hair, appeared for a moment, and then receded. Dark forms moved about the cabin without, and engaged in a whispered conversation. Presently the trees and bushes became visible, and there was a smell of burning wood in the air. "It is well," uttered a voice. "They will both perish like rats in a trap. Dyke Darrel, the famous detective, will never be heard of more, and that girl--well, she will be better dead than living. Come, Nick, let us go!" "You're sure the door's tightly fastened?" "I fixed it so Satan himself could not open it." "Good." "Let us go!" "Wait. I'd like to see the curse roast." "No, no; that won't do. We'll come in the day time and look at the bones. This old log hut has had its day, and we could not put it to a better use than to make a mausoleum for the man-tracker of the West." There was no hesitating after this. The two men moved swiftly away in the gloom that surrounded the burning cabin. A choking sensation caused the reclining man in the cabin to stir uneasily. Presently he opened his eyes. The room was full of smoke, and red tongues of flame were licking at the logs from every side. Quickly Dyke Darrel came to his feet. A smell of burning garments filled his nostrils. The bed on which Sibyl Osborne rested was on fire! "My soul! this is unfortunate," cried the detective. He was equal to the emergency, however. Springing to the side of the still sleeping girl, Dyke lifted her in his arms and strode to the door. Quickly he slipped the rude bolt and grasped the latch. It refused to yield. The door was firmly secured on the outside. CHAPTER XIII. A SAD FATE. For one instant, Dyke Darrel was paralyzed. It was for a moment only, however. He shook the door furiously, blinded by smoke, and almost strangled by hot air. The door would not yield. At this moment, the girl awoke and began to scream. Bits of burning wood fell all about them. Soon the roof would tumble in with a crash. When that moment came, every living thing must perish within the house. Dyke Darrel moved to the window, leading Sibyl. She staggered and seemed ready to fall. "Courage!" he cried, "we will soon be out of this." Reaching the narrow window, the detective dashed out sash and glass with a stool, and the air from outside seemed like a breath from fairy land. "You must go first?"