Whether forest or prairie, a conflagration was certainly raging. It
might be far off--for the wind will carry the smoke of a prairie fire a
long distance--but I had an unpleasant suspicion that it was _not_
distant. I noticed dropping around us the white floe of burnt leaves,
and from the intense bitterness of the smoke, I reasoned that it could
not have floated far--its gases were not yet dissipated.
It was not the distance of the fire that so much troubled me, as its
direction. The wind blew right in our teeth, and the smoke was
travelling with the wind. The conflagration must be ahead--directly
upon the trail!
The smoke grew thicker and thicker--ahead, the sky appeared slashed with
a lurid light; I fancied I could hear the crackling of the flames. The
air felt hot and dry: a choking sensation was produced in our throats,
and one and all were hacking and gasping for breath.
So dark had it suddenly become--or rather so blinded were we with the
smoke--we could scarcely make out the trail.
My followers would have stopped, but I urged them on. With voice and
example, I urged them on--myself leading the way. My heart was too full
of anxiety to make pause.
Where in all this were Rube and Garey? We had come far and fast; we
should now be nearly up with them--they could not be much ahead.