I suffered, not exactly pain, but a discomfort
that was almost worse. By-and-by the air cleared a little. Rifts in the
smoke drifted over me, always toward the far side of the canyon. Twice I
crawled out upon the bank, but the heat drove me back into the water. The
snow-water from the mountain-peaks had changed from cold to warm; still, it
gave a relief from the hot blast of air. More time dragged by. Weary to the
point of collapse, I grew not to care about anything.
Then the yellow fog lightened, and blew across the brook and lifted and
split. The parts of the canyon-slope that I could see were seared and
blackened. The pines were columns of living coals. The fire was eating into
their hearts. Presently they would snap at the trunk, crash down, and burn
to ashes. Wreathes of murky smoke circled them, and drifted aloft to join
the overhanging clouds.
I floundered out on the bank, and began to walk up-stream. After all, it
was not so very hot, but I felt queer. I did not seem to be able to step
where I looked or see where I stepped. Still, that caused me no worry. The
main thing was that the fire had not yet crossed the brook. I wanted to
feel overjoyed at that, but I was too tired. Anyway I was sure the fire had
crossed below or above. It would be tearing down on this side presently,
and then I would have to crawl into the brook or burn up.
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