“They made it so Oakley couldn't stay, and now they wonder why the relief train is hung up. All Durks says is that he can't get a crew. I tell you if Oakley was here he'd _have_ to get one.” “It was a mistake to send the yard engine up to Parker's Run. If we had it here now--” “How in hell was _I_ to know we'd need it? I had to try to save those ties, and we thought the wind was shifting into the south,” in fierce justification of his course. “That's so, all right,” said McClintock. “We did think the danger was past; only we shouldn't have taken any chances.” At this point they were joined by Dr. Emory. “Anything new from Buckhorn?” he inquired, anxiously. “No, it's the same old story. Durks ain't got anybody to send.” “Damn his indifference!” muttered McClintock. The doctor, like Holt, fell to mopping his face with his handkerchief. “Don't he know our danger? Don't he know we can't fight the fire without engines and hose?--that our water supply is about exhausted, and that we'll have to depend on the river?” Holt nodded wearily. “It looks as though we were to be left to face this situation as best we can, without help from the outside,” said the doctor, uneasily. Holt turned to McClintock. “Isn't there some method of back-firing?” “It's too late to try that, and, with this wind blowing, it would have been too big a risk.” He glanced moodily across the town to the north, where the black cloud hung low in the sky. He added: “I have told my wife to keep the young ones in, no matter what happens. But Lord! they will be about as well off one place as another, when it comes to the pinch.” “I suppose so,” agreed the doctor. “I am at a loss to know what precautions to take to insure the safety of Mrs. Emory and my daughter.” It was only four o'clock, but it was already quite dark in the town--a strange half-light that twisted the accustomed shape of things. The air was close, stifling; and the wind, which blew in heavy gusts, was like the breath from a furnace. The sombre twilight carried with it a horrible sense of depression. Every sound in nature was stilled; silence reigned supreme. It was the expectant hush of each living thing. The three men stepped out on the platform. Holt and the doctor were still mopping their faces with their limp handkerchiefs. McClintock was fanning himself with his straw hat. When they spoke they unconsciously dropped their voices to a whisper. “Those families in the North End should move out of their homes,” said the doctor. “If they wait until the fire gets here, they will save nothing but what they have on their backs.” “Yes, and the houses ought to come down,” added McClintock. “There's where the fire will get its first grip on the town, and then Heaven help us!” Night came, and so imminent seemed the danger that Antioch was roused to something like activity. A crowd, composed almost exclusively of men, gathered early on the square before the court-house.