We continued on our journey perhaps for a quarter of a mile, and then Hiram Bent stopped again. This time he looked significantly at Dick without speaking a word. “Ah!” exclaimed Dick. I thought his tone sounded queer, but it did not at the moment strike me forcibly. We rode on. The forest became lighter, glimpses of sky showed low down through the trees, we were nearing a slope. For the third time the old hunter brought us to a stop, this time on the edge of a slope that led down to the rolling foot-hills. I could only stand and gaze. Those open stretches, sloping down, all green and brown and beautiful, robbed me of thought. “Look thar!” cried Hiram Bent. His tone startled me. I faced about, to see his powerful arm outstretched and his finger pointing. His stern face added to my sudden concern. Something was wrong with my friends. I glanced in the direction he indicated. There were two rolling slopes or steps below us, and they were like gigantic swells of a green ocean. Beyond the second one rose a long, billowy, bluish cloud. It was smoke. All at once I smelled smoke, too. It came on the fresh, strong wind. “Forest fire!” exclaimed Dick. “Wal, I reckon,” replied Hiram, tersely. “An' look thar, an' thar!” Far to the right and far to the left, over the green, swelling foot-hills, rose that rounded, changing line of blue cloud. “The slash! the slash! Buell's fired the slash!” cried Dick, as one suddenly awakened. “Penetier will go!” “Wal, I reckon. But thet's not the worst.” “You mean--” “Mebbe we can't get out. The forest's dry as powder, an' thet's the worst wind we could have. These canyon-draws suck in the wind, an' fire will race up them fast as a hoss can run.” “Good God, man! What'll we do?” “Wait. Mebbe it ain't so bad--yet. Now let's all listen.” The faces of my friends, more than words, terrified me. I listened with all my ears while watching with all my eyes. The line of rolling cloud expanded, seemed to burst and roll upward, to bulge and mushroom. In a few short moments it covered the second slope as far to the right and left as we could see. The under surface was a bluish white. It shot up swiftly, to spread out into immense, slow-moving clouds of creamy yellow. “Hear thet?” Hiram Bent shook his gray head as one who listened to dire tidings. The wind, sweeping up the slope of Penetier, carried a strong, pungent odor of burning pitch. It brought also a low roar, not like the wind in the trees or rapid-rushing water. It might have been my imagination, but I fancied it was like the sound of flames blowing through the wood of a campfire. “Fire! Fire!” exclaimed Hiram, with another ominous shake of his head. “We must be up an' doin'.” “The forest's greatest foe! Old Penetier is doomed!” cried Dick Leslie. “That line of fire is miles long, and is spreading fast. It'll shoot up the canyons and crisscross the forest in no time. Bent, what'll we do?”