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 pricked 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 hoarse 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 passed 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--God!--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.