Quick upon the heels of these fugitives came the news that the half-dozen families at Barrow's Saw Mills had been forced to flee from their homes. The fire had encircled the mills in a single night, and one old man, a trapper and hunter, who lived alone in a cabin in a small clearing on the outskirts of the settlement, had been burned to death in his bunk before he could be warned of his danger or help reach him. It was then that Antioch sent out its first call for help. It needed fire-engines and hose, and it needed them badly, especially the hose, for the little reservoir from which the town drew its water supply was almost empty. Antioch forgot the murder of Ryder. It forgot Roger Oakley, the strike, and all lesser affairs. A common danger threatened its homes, perhaps the lives of its citizens. A score of angry men were stamping up and down the long platform across from the shops, or pushing in and out of the ugly little depot, which had taken on years in apparent age and decay in the two days during which no trains had been running. They were abusing Holt, the railroad, and every one connected with it. For the thousandth time they demanded to know where the promised relief train was--if it had started from Buckhorn Junction, and, if it _hadn't_ started, the reason of the delay. The harried assistant-treasurer answered these questions as best he could. “Are you going to let the town burn without making a move to save it?” demanded an excited citizen. “You don't think I am any more anxious to see it go than you are?” retorted Holt, angrily. “Then why don't your damn road do something to prevent it?” “The road's doing all it can, gentlemen.” “That's a whole lot, ain't it?” “We are cut off,” said Holt, helplessly. “Everything's tied up tight.” “You can wire, can't you?” “Yes, I can wire; I have wired.” “Well, where's the relief train, then?” “It's at the Junction.” “It's going to do us a lot of good there, ain't it?” “They'll send it as soon as they can get together a crew.” “Stir them up again, Holt Tell 'em we got to have that hose and those engines, or the town's gone. It's a matter of life and death.” Holt turned back into the depot, and the crowd dispersed. In the ticket-office he found McClintock, who had just come in from up-town. The master mechanic's face was unusually grave. “I have been investigating the water supply with the city engineer. Things are in awful shape. The mains are about empty, and there isn't pressure enough from the stand-pipe to throw a thirty-five foot stream.” “I wish Oakley was here,” muttered Holt. “So do I. Somehow he had a knack at keeping things moving. I don't mean but what you've done your level best, Byron,” he added, kindly. “They've laid down on me at the Junction,” said the younger man, bitterly. He stepped to the door, mopping his face with his handkerchief, and stood looking down the track in the direction of Buckhorn.