But in a moment of vain pursuit a certain knowledge came to him. These sheep were headed down into his own country,—into the land of forest and thicket where he could hunt to an advantage. The thing to do was to continue the chase, prevent them from circling back, and who knows what glory might be his in the still, tree-clad ridges below him. * * * * * The chase of Spot and his bighorn ewes down into the greenwood was not the only stir of life in the midday silence of Smoky Land. At the same hour the hoofbeats of a running horse carried far through the dusky thickets of a certain great ridge to the east,—a place that divided Crowson’s range from the old Bear Canyon country. A man rode lightly in the saddle: and his dark skin revealed him as an alien in this northern land. José Mertos was riding on orders, and he came swiftly. There was work for him to-day. He seemed to know just what to do. From time to time he scanned the horizon as if searching for a landmark. Then he turned off the trail through the heavy timber. The forest constantly grew more brushy, his advance ever more difficult. And at last he came to the mouth of a great, still canyon. Very swiftly he went to work. And if it had not been for the curious intentness of his eyes, an unexplainable nervousness in his motions, one would have thought that he was merely making a camp. He collected a little pile of dry bark and pushed a few brown pine needles under it. Then he broke off some of the brittle branches of the underbrush. These were piled on too; and a match flashed in his hand. Just a moment he stood, waiting until the flame—a yellow hungry little tongue that a slap of the hand could extinguish—crept like a serpent into the little heap of dead bark. He saw it grow and climb till, with a sudden leap, it sprang into the dry branches that he had broken off. And from there it was only one leap to the brittle brush of the shrubbery of the thicket. José smiled then, a little, dim curling of his thin lips over his gleaming teeth. And he did not smile often. An event had to be very cruel and hurt some one very badly to waken mirth in him. And now there was no answering echo of simple pleasure in his dark eyes. Rather the fire that he had ignited had crept into them also: the pupils were oddly contracted and bright as points of steel. He seemed somewhat breathless, too, stirred to the depths with a madness unknown even to the wild creatures. There is no more wholesome emotion on earth than the love for the open fire. It was the first friend, and its comradeship and protection are remembered from the immeasurable past. And there is no madness that is so devastating and terrible as that of incendiarism. José was not, ordinarily, a man given to excesses. But the fire madness was upon him now.