naturally, bob’s first thought was of escape, of some way in which to get out of the four walls which kept him from carrying the warning to mr. whitney that might mean the saving of the dam. if he could only get out, he did not fear harper’s being on guard. the last speech that had come to him through the door had been so contradictory and had emphasized so strongly the fact that harper would be outside, that bob was quite sure he wouldn’t. at any rate he was willing to take the chance if only he could get out.
the first thing was to examine his prison. there might be an opening that had been overlooked. bob started from the door and felt every inch of the wall within his reach. his fingers had to do duty for his eyes, as by this time night had fallen and the interior of the hut was pitch dark. not even a ray of moonlight came through the cracks in the door. in this slow fashion he made the circuit of the room without finding even a crack in the dried clay.
he was trapped!
but bob refused to give up hope. too much depended on his getting free and being at the dam in time to prevent anything serious happening. back at the door, he threw his whole weight time and time again on the boards but they held firm. this way, too, was closed to him.
what next? feverishly he started to go through his pockets, hoping that in their hurried search the cowmen had overlooked his jackknife. if they had he could try to dig through the walls! hope flared up for a moment but soon died, as all he could find was a loose button and a broken match that had lodged in the lining of his khaki jacket.
“much good they’ll do me,” he muttered to himself and sat down with his back to the door to plan some new attempt.
but at first all he could think of was what would happen if he did not get out. probably it meant the blowing up of the dam and machinery and a serious uprising of the mexicans—one that would mean bloodshed. it was terrible to think of, yet he was convinced that that was the least that could be expected. the cattlemen could not hold the mexicans in check once they had been started on the rampage.
mr. whitney knew that something was wrong, but he did not know what. bob’s confidence in his chief was great but he feared that no matter how strong and capable mr. whitney might be, he would be powerless to avert the calamity that seemed on the way, unless he had some definite notice that it was approaching.
who else could help?
feather-in-the-wind! perhaps the indian would miss him and sound the alarm? besides, bob had asked him to look out for trouble with the mexicans and perhaps, just perhaps, he might tell mr. whitney.
then, as suddenly as the hope had come, it fled. possibly mr. whitney had not come back! feather-in-the-wind alone would be no use! he must get out himself!
as he pondered his problem, his fingers had been playing with the loose button that had been in his pocket, and now it slipped from his hand and rolled off on the dirt floor toward the center of the room. rather aimlessly, he reached out and groped for it. as his hand swept the floor it came in contact with a fine, floury substance. “ashes,” was his thought. an inch or so farther and he gripped an object that he felt to be a half burned stick of wood.
immediately the button was forgotten, for an idea had come to him. he would burn down the door!
he had a match and if there was enough wood there was a chance. the planking of the door was dry and there was no reason why it would not catch.
the possibility of getting free intoxicated him and on hands and knees he searched the floor. there were other sticks. evidently the horse thief had been given a fire and it had only been put out when he was taken away for the last time—probably to the nearest tree high enough to swing a man clear of the ground. besides this, to bob’s great delight, a little pile of unburnt wood was stacked in one corner. he wondered why he had not stumbled over them when he first made the circuit of the hut.
only when he had carried all his treasure to the door, did he realize that in all probability his work had been in vain.
there was nothing to use as kindling! he had only one match and a broken one at that. to make sure of his fire catching he ought to have paper or some substance equally easy to light. the wood was dry but it was too big to catch from one match.
bob almost sobbed with his great disappointment. it seemed to be the end; there was nothing more to be done. he had explored the room—every nook and cranny of it—and he had come across nothing that could be used.
but he made one more try. possibly a picture or newspaper had been tacked on the wall and had escaped his fingers when he had first gone round the room.
there was no better luck this time and when he came again to the door he was ready to admit defeat.
then, in a flash, he knew he wasn’t beaten! far from it. as he yanked off his coat he muttered savagely to himself.
“you poor nut! you haven’t any sense anyway!”
after his coat, bob ripped off his flannel shirt and tore it down a seam. then, with the greatest care, he began to unravel the threads that made up the fabric. the loose threads would burn when the cloth itself would only go out. before he had a pile of threads that he felt would be sufficient for his purpose, his fingers ached and his nails were bleeding.
at last, however, he decided to take the chance of having enough. going over the stack of sticks, he selected the smallest and those that had already been somewhat burned, as they would be the easiest to catch fire again. then he separated his flannel ravelings into three piles and put them against the door.
now came the crucial moment. he felt in the pocket where he thought he had put the single match that might possibly be the key to his prison, and for a second was sick with fear that he had lost it. but his fingers closed on the precious object and he breathed again.
holding it as if it were glass, bob scratched it on the hard floor. it did not light. again he pulled it across the hard surface and a little flare spurted from the head and then died out.
bob gasped. he was sure that the match’s usefulness was over, but feverishly, throwing caution to the winds, he rasped the head against the planking of the door.
it lit, flashing a glare into his eyes so accustomed to the utter darkness. but his gesture had been so violent that the stick broke and the flaming head flew off and fell on the floor.
bob grabbed it and, before it could go out, nursed the flicker in his cupped hands, not realizing that it was burning his fingers cruelly. carefully, yet swiftly, he carried the flame to the little pile of threads. as these caught, his heart grew light with thankfulness.
little by little the boy fed the smoldering ravelings of his shirt with the other piles, holding in the center of the glowing coal the smallest of the sticks.
hardly daring to breathe, he watched and hoped for a flame to spring from the wood.if it came, he had won; if not, his losing was the end of the fight. there would be no other way out.
just as bob was about to give up hope, for his fingers told him that the last pile of threads was about all gone, a sliver of flame ran up the stick he held in his left hand. it went out but a second later another one came and stayed!
with the utmost caution, the boy laid the burning stick down on the faintly red ashes of the threads and arranged other sticks on it. then, gently, he breathed over it and the little flame grew and multiplied. soon it was going briskly, but it was not till then that the load of fear dropped from bob’s shoulders.
when the fire was burning strongly, he moved it as close to the door as possible so that the flames could lick the planking. his whole scheme depended on the door burning sufficiently to let him either crawl through or to weaken it to the point where his strength could break it down. therefore, once the fire was in place he must not be stingy with his wood; the hotter the blaze, the more chance he had.
he piled on all the sticks he had and watched the flames mount higher and higher until the whole doorway was a sheet of roaring fire.
he thought the door had caught but he could not be sure. but soon he lost interest, for a new danger threatened him. it was one which he had failed to foresee when he had planned this means of escape.
there was no outlet for the smoke! the little room was practically air-tight except for the cracks around the door and these now were bringing in only the oxygen that allowed the fire to burn.
choked, stifling with the intense heat, bob fell on his face, remembering that smoke always rises.
for a moment or two this helped, for he was able to breathe, but soon the smoke was everywhere and bob knew that he would have to move.
was he to die, trapped like a rat? was this the end of his adventure? it looked very much like it. but something would not let him give up. he would make one more attempt for his life and liberty.
struggling to his feet, his eyes almost blinded, smarting with the sting of the smoke, he dashed headlong into the flaming door.
he bounced back, not knowing that his clothes were afire in several places. instinctively he charged again.
this time a crash, a splintering of the wood was the result. once more he dived into it and the next moment he was in the gray air of the early dawn.
stumbling, panting, he ran around the corner of the hut, urged by the knowledge that he was afire. luckily the river nearly touched the back wall of the hut that had been his prison. a few steps and he fell face downward in the shallows.
