"Made me think of the way we smoked that mountain lion out of his den--smell of dried grass, all right. I wonder if the boys are burning off a piece of meadow that's turned brown in this dry spell?" Frank himself was now busily engaged in "sniffing." "Well, there must be a fire where there's smoke," he said finally, at the same time showing a trace of uneasiness. "Strikes me, it comes from over that way." "Look at that burst of smoke shoot up on the other side of the house!" cried Lanky. "Some fire, that must be as sure as-- There, listen to Charlie Gin Sing giving tongue! The cook's as scared as a singed cat. Let's scoot over that way, Frank, and see what they're doing. Now others are yelling to beat the band! We were longing for excitement, and, sure enough, here she comes full tilt!" "Lanky, it's the barn on fire, I do believe!" Frank managed to say as the pair of them went at full speed, swerving so as to pass around the house, when they would have a full unobstructed view. "With all that hay and the straw from last year in it, too!" added the other. Then as the boys turned the corner where Gin Sing was now beating wildly on a monster frying pan and making a dreadful din, Lanky finished with a whoop, and increased his pace, if such a thing were possible. No question about its being the barn that was ablaze, for vast volumes of smoke were already pouring out from several places. These continually grew in density, while wicked looking red tongues of flame could be seen playing amidst the dense belching billows. Frank had gone as white as chalk. "Your mother--Minnie!" he gasped. "What of them?" cried the agitated Lanky. "I saw them go in some time ago! Oh, Lanky! what if they are still inside the old barn, trapped like rats and blinded with all that smoke?" CHAPTER III TRAPPED IN THE BURNING BARN Lanky Wallace apparently could find no words to express the feeling of horror that gripped his heart. Never did any boy have a dearer mother than his own "Mom." No wonder the possibility of losing her in such a terrible tragedy seemed to freeze the very blood in his veins. It was indeed an exciting time at Rockspur Ranch. Men were shouting as they ran toward the burning barn as only big-lunged cow-punchers can shout. The excited cook meanwhile continued to whang away with his big spoon, as though the frying pan he held might be a dinner gong and he meant to summon those who were a full mile away. Too, the crackling of the leaping flames told that they were gathering fresh headway with every passing second, and these sounds began to be a factor in the conglomeration of noises that had so suddenly sprung into existence on that sunny afternoon in early summer.