"Not a house. There isn't one along here," she returned. "Some old-timer got caught!" yelled the teamster, looking back at the two pony-riders. "Hope he saved his skin." "A wagoner!" cried Frances, startled. "He cut his stock loose, of course," yelled Mack Hinkman. But when they reached the burning wagon they saw that this was not altogether true. One horse lay, charred, in the harness. The wagon had been empty. The driver of it had evidently cut his other horse loose and ridden away on its back to save himself. "And why didn't he free this poor creature?" demanded Pratt. "How cruel!" "He was scare't," said Mack, pulling his mules out of the trail so as to drive around the burning wagon. "Or mebbe the hawse fell. Like enough that's it." Frances said nothing more. She was wondering if this abandoned wagon was the one she had seen turn into the trail from Cottonwood Bottom early in the day? And who was its driver? They went on, puzzled by this incident. At least, Frances and Pratt were puzzled by it. "We may see the fellow at the ford," Frances said. "Too bad he lost his outfit." "He didn't have anything in that wagon," said Pratt. "It was as empty as your own." Frances looked at him curiously. She remembered that the young man from Amarillo had taken a peep into the Bar-T wagon when he joined them on the trail. He must have seen the heavy chest; and now he ignored it. On and on they rode. The smoke made the ride very unpleasant, even if the flames were now at a distance. Behind them the glare of the fire decreased; but to north and south the wall of flame, at a distance of several miles, rushed on and passed the riders on the trail. The trees along the river's brink came into view, outlined in many places by red and yellow flames. The fire would do a deal of damage along here, for even the greenest trees would be badly scorched. The mules had run themselves pretty much out of breath and finally reduced their pace; but the wagon still led the procession when it reached the high bank. The water in the river was very low; the trail descended the bank on a slant, and Mack put on the brakes and allowed the sure-footed mules to take their own course to the ford. With hanging heads and heaving flanks, the two cow-ponies followed. Frances and Pratt were scorched, and smutted from head to foot; and their throats were parched, too. "I hope I'll never have to take such another ride," admitted the young man from Amarillo. "Adventure is all right, Frances; but clerking in a bank doesn't prepare one for such a strenuous life." "I think you are game, Pratt," she said, frankly. "I can see that Mack, even, thinks you are pretty good--for a tenderfoot." The wagon went into the water at that moment. Mack yelled to the mules to stop. The wagon was hub deep in the stream and he loosened the reins so that the animals might plunge their noses into the flood. Molly and the grey quickly put down their heads, too.