“It’s wine,” Bob Ridley said.  “But they’ll never save it.  Booker’s store is going, too.  Looks like a clean sweep of the block.”

Broderick’s commanding figure could be seen rushing hither and thither.  “No use,” Benito heard him say to one of his lieutenants.  “Water won’t stop it.  Not enough....  Is there any powder hereabouts?”

“Powder!” cried the other with a blanching face.  “By the Eternal, yes!  A store of it is just around the corner.  Mustn’t let the fire reach—­”

Broderick cut him short.  “Go and get it.  You and two others.  Blow up or pull down that building,” he indicated a sprawling ramshackle structure on the corner.

“But it’s mine,” one of the fire-fighters wailed.  “Cost me ten thousand dollars—­”

Fiercely Broderick turned upon him.  “It’ll cost the town ten millions if you don’t hurry,” he bellowed.  “You can’t save it, anyhow.  Do you want the whole place to burn?”

[Illustration:  Broderick’s commanding figure was seen rushing hither and thither....  “You and two others.  Blow up or pull down that building,” he indicated a sprawling, ramshackle structure.]

“All right, all right, Cap.  Don’t shoot,” the other countered with a sudden laugh.  “Come on, boys, follow me.”  Benito watched him and the others presently returning with three kegs.  They dived into the building indicated.  Presently, with the noise of a hundred cannon, the corner building burst apart.  Sticks and bits of plaster flew everywhere.  The crowd receded, panic-stricken.

“Good work!” cried the fire marshal.

It seemed, indeed, as though the flames were daunted.  The two small structures were blazing now.  The Parker House, reeling drunkenly, collapsed.

Unexpectedly a gust of wind sent fire from the ruins of Dennison’s Exchange northward.  It reached across the open space and flung a rain of sparks down Washington street toward Montgomery.  Instantly there came an answering crackle, and exasperated fire-fighters rushed to meet the latest sortie of their enemy.  Once more three men, keg laden, made their way through smoke and showering brands.  Again the deafening report reverberated and the crowd fell back, alarmed.

Someone grasped Benito’s arm and shook it violently.  He turned and looked into the feverishly questioning eyes of Adrian Stanley.

“I’ve just returned,” the other panted.  “Tell me, is all well—­with Inez?  The women?”

“Don’t know,” said Benito, half bewildered.  The woman’s wail for a lost child leaped terrifyingly into his recollection.  His hand went up as if to ward off something.  “Don’t know,” he repeated.  “Wasn’t home when—­fire started.”

It came to him weirdly that he was talking like a drunken man; that Adrian eyed him with a sharp disfavor.  “Where the devil were you, then?”

“At the ranch,” he answered.  Suddenly he laughed.  It all seemed very funny.  He had meant to give his wife a Christmas present; later he had ridden madly to her rescue, yet here he was passing buckets in a fire brigade.  And Adrian, regarding him with suspicion, accusing him silently with his eyes.