“Fire!” announced the observer involuntarily to the sleepers above.  “The other ranch house is afire!” Then, as they were slow in awakening, the cry was repeated more loudly:  “Fire!  Fire!”

* * * * *

A conflagration is the universal contagion, the one excitement that never palls.  Forth into the night, forgetful of his companion, forgetful of all save the interest of the moment, rushed O’Reilly.  Half dressed, hatless, working with buttons as they went, Parker, the new owner, and Mead, the lawyer, descended the rickety stairs like an avalanche and without pausing to more than look followed running in his wake.  The unused ranch house was dry as cardboard and was burning fiercely.  Though there was still no moon and the overseer had several minutes the start, against the light they could see his running figure distinctly.  Standing in the living-room as they rushed through, white faced, hesitant, was Clayton Craig; but though he had spoken to them—­they both recalled that fact afterward—­neither had paused to listen or to answer.  That he would not follow never occurred to them until minutes thereafter.  Not until, panting, struggling for breath after the unusual effort, they had covered the intervening mile, and the heat of the already diminishing fire was on their faces, did they think of him at all.  Even then it was not the first thought which occurred; for the moment they arrived O’Reilly, who was waiting, turned, facing them excitedly.

“Do you see that?” he queried, pointing to a black band that surrounded the building in a complete circle.

Parker nodded understandingly; but Mead, who was city bred, looked mystified.  “What is it?” he returned.

“A firebreak,” explained the Irishman.  “Someone didn’t want the blaze to spread and scattered earth clear around the place, with a spade.”  Leaning over he picked up a clod and thumbed it significantly.  “It hasn’t been done a half hour.  The dirt isn’t even dry.”

Brief as the time had been, already the frail walls were settling to embers.  There was nothing to do; and standing there the three men looked understandingly into each other’s faces.  The same thought stood clear on all; for all alike knew every detail of the story.

“The Indian, How Landor,” suggested Mead adequately.

“Yes,” corroborated Parker, “and I’m glad of it.  I’m not squeamish, but the Lord knows I’d never have used the place myself.”

Of a sudden, O’Reilly, who had turned and was staring into the blaze, faced about.  That second he had remembered.

“Where’s Craig?” he queried swiftly, glancing back the way they had come.  “Didn’t he follow?”

Until that moment none of the three had thought of the other man.  Now they realised that they were alone.  But even then two of the trio did not understand.

“Evidently he didn’t start,” said Mead.  “He couldn’t have missed the light if he did.”