Kurt had no fear of the dark.  He knew that trail almost as well by night as by day.  His horse was a mettlesome colt that had not been worked during the harvest, and he plunged down the dim, winding trail as if, indeed, to verify Jerry’s fears.  Presently the thin, pale line that was the trail disappeared on the burned wheat-ground.  Here Kurt was at fault as to direction, but he did not slacken the pace for that.  He heard Jerry pounding along in the rear, trying to catch up.  The way the colt jumped ditches and washes and other obstructions proved his keen sight.  Kurt let him go.  And then the ride became both perilous and thrilling.

Kurt could not see anything on the blackened earth.  But he knew from the contour of the hills just about where to expect to reach the fence and the road.  And he did not pull the horse too soon.  When he found the gate he waited for Jerry, who could be heard calling from the darkness.  Kurt answered him.

“Here’s the gate!” yelled Kurt, as Jerry came galloping up.  “Good road all the way now!”

“Lickity-cut then!” shouted Jerry to whom the pace had evidently communicated enthusiasm.

The ride then became a race, with Kurt drawing ahead.  Kurt could see the road, a broad, pale belt, dividing the blackness on either side; and he urged the colt to a run.  The wind cut short Kurt’s breath, beat at his ears, and roared about them.  Closer and closer drew the red flare of the dying fire, casting long rays of light into Kurt’s eyes.

The colt was almost run out when he entered the circle of reddish flare.  Kurt saw the glowing ruins of the elevators and a long, fiery line of box-cars burned to the wheels.  Men were running and shouting round in front of the little railroad station, and several were on the roof with brooms and buckets.  The freight-house had burned, and evidently the station itself had been on fire.  Across the wide street of the little village the roof of a cottage was burning.  Men were on top of it, beating the shingles.  Hoarse yells greeted Kurt as he leaped out of the saddle.  He heard screams of frightened women.  On the other side of the burned box-cars a long, thin column of sparks rose straight upward.  Over the ruins of the elevators hung a pall of heavy smoke.  Just then Jerry came galloping up, his lean face red in the glow.

“Thet you, Kurt!  Say, the sons of guns are burnin’ down the town.”  He leaped off.  “Lemme have your bridle.  I’ll tie the hosses up.  Find out what we can do.”

Kurt ran here and there, possessed by impotent rage.  The wheat was gone!  That fact gave him a hollow, sickening pang.  He met farmers he knew.  They all threw up their hands at sight of him.  Not one could find a voice.  Finally he met Olsen.  The little wheat farmer was white with passion.  He carried a gun.

“Hello, Dorn!  Ain’t this hell?  They got your wheat!” he said hoarsely.

“Olsen!  How’d it happen?  Wasn’t anybody set to guard the elevators?”