"What's the matter with you, Lane? You look like a crazy man. What did you want of Mr. Barrett, anyway? What did you drag him out of Barnum Withee's camp for? Don't try to bluff me. I know about it. Barnum got here with his crew at daylight to fight fire, and his men have been talking about it. What right have you got to be bothering John Barrett? I haven't had time to get facts. I've got something else on my mind than other folk's troubles. But I know you've picked trouble with Barrett. Why, great Judas, you long-shanked fool, that man is goin' to be the next governor of this State! You must have heard of John Barrett! Trying to arrest John Barrett! What did you take him for--a game-poacher? Or have you gone clean out of your wits? What have you done with him?" During the timber baron's harangue Lane kept his eyes on the prophet, meeting the latter's blinking regard with sullen threat in his eyes. "Blast ye! Answer me!" roared the Honorable Pulaski. "Where is Mr. Barrett? I want to discuss this fire situation with him." "Then go find him," growled the fire warden. "Where is he?" Lane raised his gaunt arm and swung it the circle of the horizon. "There!" he snarled. He still kept his gaze on the prophet, as though to note the least intention to betray him. But it appeared that the sage of Tumbledick was in no mood for dangerous revelations. He thrust up one grimy finger. "May be there!" he remarked. He pointed the finger straight down. "May be there!" He jumped his stallion ahead with a crack of his reins and disappeared in the smoke. Lane cast after him a look baleful, but relieved, and whirled and made away in the direction of Jerusalem. "Me standing here wasting my time on a couple of whiffle-heads with that fire waltzing into my black growth!" Britt muttered, turning his wrath on himself, since there was no one else in sight. "It must be only some fool scare about Barrett. A man like him can take care of himself." He stumped on, turning to climb a spur of ledge from which, as commander-in-chief, he might take an observation. Less than a mile to the south, he spied the thing that he had been dreading. The ground fire, lashed by the rising wind of the morning, had leaped off the earth and become a crown fire. It had entered the edge of the black growth. One after the other the green tops of the hemlocks and spruces burst into the horrid bloom of conflagration. They flowered. They seeded. And the seeds were fire-brands that scaled down the wind, dropping, rooting instantly, and blossoming into new destruction. "She can't be stopped! She can't be stopped!" moaned Britt. "She's headed for the Notch, and then tophet's let loose!" But with the persistence of his nature he set off to rally the crew to a flank movement. With the inadequate force it was rather a skirmish than a battle for those who fought in the face of the great fire.