While José Mertos had been riding, Landy Fargo had been busy, too. It
wasn’t enough just to order things done, and later to learn of their
accomplishment. In the hand, more than the brain, lies the gratification
of vengeance; and Fargo didn’t intend to miss this satisfaction. Riding
swiftly, he had lighted the circle of fires in front of the sheep flock.
Exultation was upon him when he saw the red, greedy flames creeping into
the trees. It was his long-awaited moment. By no conceivable
circumstances could the flock and its shepherd escape. He had prepared
for every emergency, blockaded every pass.
The blows that Hugh had dealt him were paid for at last. His dog-pack
been laid low, in a still, ugly, curious heap—but there would be other
silent ones before this night was done. And there would be less of
beauty in these still forms than in those of his slain pets. Everything
was square at last. His brutal lips leered and his eyes burned.
When his last fire was ignited, he stopped for a moment of exultation.
The red terror was sweeping into the trees, faster than he had ever
dreamed. Even now his enemies were enclosed in a prison of fiery walls
from which they never could escape. “I’ve got you,” he cried in triumph.
“You thought you could trample on me and get away with it, but I’ve
shown you.” He lifted his powerful hand. “I’ve crushed you—like that.”
His brutal fingers closed. His fiery eyes glowed with self-worship.
“With this hand,” he exulted, in half-insane rapture. “This is the hand
that crushed you—no one else’s. You thought you could stand against it,
but it’s smashed you at last.”
He waited a little while more, fascinated by the lightning advance of
the fire. The brush and trees were particularly heavy in this glade—and
the red tongues swept forward with startling rapidity. He hadn’t much
time to linger further. It was always best to play safe—and take no
chances on this demon of fire. Yet he stayed, thrilled and fascinated by
his handiwork.
All at once a crackle behind him caused him to glance quickly over his
shoulder. He saw to his terror that a little arm of the fire had spread
here, too. He whirled his horse, then with a savage oath lashed down
with his quirt.
Yet plenty of time remained, by riding swiftly, to save himself. There
was no need for fear. He would go straight to his home, and from its
windows he could watch the progress of the fire. Yet the crackle behind
him got on his nerves, and he struck his horse again.
And this second blow was a serious mistake. The horse was already
running at a swift pace down the narrow trail. There is a limit to the
speed a horse can run with safety in the Idaho mountains, and that limit
was already reached. Beyond that point comes only panic and blind
frenzy. The horse leaped forward to the wildest pace it knew.
The sweat leaped from Fargo’s dark brow, and slowly his self-mastery
came back to him. There was no need of this wild flight. He had plenty
of time. He started to check the horse.
But at that instant the sinister forces of the wild—always lurking in
ambush for such as Fargo—saw their chance. And the forest-demons do not
need mighty weapons. Their agents are the Little Things, the covert
trivialities that few men notice. In this case the resistless force that
overwhelmed him was only a furry, half-blind creature of the dust—a
rodent such as ordinarily Fargo would press his heel upon and crush.
The rodent had been enlarging his winter home, and he had dug away some
of the earth from under the trail. The horse was running too wildly to
be careful, his hoof broke through the little shelf of dirt, and he
tripped and hurled headlong.
To the rodent, the disaster meant further hours of toil—digging
tirelessly till his rooms were clean again. Through some incredible
chance—perhaps because the great god Manitou had saved him for further
work—the horse was uninjured, and soon regained his feet. But Fargo was
hurled to the earth as the horse fell, and he only knew a great darkness
that transcended and smothered him.
As if they were trying to restore his nervous forces for some great
ordeal, the forest gods granted him a full hour of peaceful, restful
slumber. But it was doubtful mercy. At the end of that hour they
laughed—a sound not greatly different from the crackle of a great fire,
and began to call him into consciousness.
First they brought evil dreams, and Fargo started and murmured in his
sleep, tossing a little on his bed of pine needles. His look of triumph
was gone from his brutal features now. Instead, there was a curious
drawing and strain—and for all the sudden heat of the early night, cold
drops on his brow. Still his eyes wouldn’t open. He fought hard, and his
quivering body rustled the dead leaves.
Curious streaks of light slashed before his eyeballs now—all colors,
and they filled him with horror. But slowly remembrance returned to him.
He had set the fire, and now it was time to ride away. He mustn’t get
caught in his own trap. He rallied all the powers of his spirit and
fought for consciousness.
And the forest-demons decided to grant it to him. It was not in accord
with their plans that he should lie insensible throughout all the
entertainment they had provided for him. So they not only permitted him
to waken, but as a final favor they bestowed upon him a
super-consciousness—a fine keying of every nerve and an added
sensitiveness to his flesh. It was their final beneficence, and they
gave it freely. Fargo opened his starting eyes.
His first thought was of flight, and therefore of his horse. But the
animal, knowing of old the fear of fire, had sped on down the trail.
Fargo was alone. He had to run for it, then, before it was too
late. . . . He sat up, shuddering.
It occurred to him then that the fall had bewildered him as to his
directions. At the first glance he beheld the fire, but it was in front
of him instead of behind where he had left it. It was curious to be so
turned around—and he looked over his shoulder, intending to mark the
best trail to safety. And then Landy Fargo’s throat convulsed and his
breath came out in a scream.
The fiery wall was behind him, too, leaping toward him with a deadly and
terrible ferocity. The trees flamed like great torches, swayed and fell;
the brush was a wall of fire. The conflagration had made a great half
circle, just as he had planned, converging to the left of him.
But to his right the fiery barrier was nearest of all. He didn’t have to
turn to know that. Its crackle was just in his ear. And then he leaped
to his feet with a wild, blasphemous cry.
A little peninsula of fire had crept out from the burning brush to his
right, and had paused—in grim speculation—beside something hard and
strong that it found resting in the pine needles. It was Fargo’s
hand—the hand in which he had exulted such a little time before, and
which had set the flame. As if in gratitude, the red tongue licked at
its brown skin.
Full knowledge came to Fargo then. All about him raged the fire,
pressing ever closer. He was helpless—powerless to aid himself as the
Shropshire lamb that he had thrown, so many weeks ago, among his hounds.
His own handiwork had turned against him, and the vengeance of the
wilderness was complete.