“Hampton!” The word rang out over the infernal crackling and roaring like the note of a trumpet.

“Ay!  What is it?” The returning voice was plainly not Hampton’s, yet it came from directly in front, and not faraway.

“Who are you?  Is that you, Marshal?”

“Thet’s the ticket,” answered the voice, gruffly, “an’ just as full o’ fight es ever.”

Brant lifted his jacket to protect his face from the scorching heat.  There was certainly no time to lose in any exchange of compliments.  Already, the flames were closing in; in five minutes more they would seal every avenue of escape.

“I ’m Brant, Lieutenant Seventh Cavalry,” he cried, choking with the thickening smoke.  “My troop has scattered those fellows who were hunting you.  I ’ll protect you and your prisoner, but you ’ll have to get out of there at once.  Can you locate me and make a dash for it?  Wrap your coats around your heads, and leave your guns behind.”

An instant he waited for the answer, fairly writhing in the intense heat, then Mason shouted, “Hampton ’s been shot, and I ’m winged a little; I can’t carry him.”

It was a desperately hard thing to do, but Brant had given his promise, and in that moment of supreme trial, he had no other thought than fulfilling it.  He ripped off his jacket, wrapped it about his face, jammed a handkerchief into his mouth, and, with a prayer in his heart, leaped forward into the seemingly narrow fringe of fire in his front.  Head down, he ran blindly, stumbling forward as he struck the ore-dump, and beating out with his hands the sparks that scorched his clothing.  The smoke appeared to roll higher from the ground here, and the coughing soldier crept up beneath it, breathing the hot air, and feeling as though his entire body were afire.  Mason, his countenance black and unrecognizable, his shirt soaked with blood, peered into his face.

“Hell, ain’t it!” he sputtered, “but you’re a dandy, all right.”

“Is Hampton dead?”

“I reckon not.  Got hit bad, though, and clear out of his head.”

Brant cast one glance into the white, unconscious face of his rival, and acted with the promptness of military training.

“Whip off your shirt, Mason, and tie it around your face,” he commanded, “Lively now!”

He bound his silk neckerchief across Hampton’s mouth, and lifted the limp form partially from the ground.  “Help me to get him up.  There, that will do.  Now keep as close as you can so as to steady him if I trip.  Straight ahead—­run for it!”

They sprang directly into the lurid flames, bending low, Brant’s hands grasping the inert form lying across his shoulder.  They dashed stumbling through the black, smouldering lane beyond.  Half-way down this, the ground yet hot beneath their feet, the vapor stifling, but with clearer breaths of air blowing in their faces, Brant tripped and fell.  Mason beat out the smouldering sparks in his clothing, and assisted him to stagger to his feet once more.  Then together they bore him, now unconscious, slowly down below the first fire-line.