On both sides trees were already wrapped in flame, yet he discovered a lane along which he stumbled until a fringe of burning bushes extended completely across it.

The heat was almost intolerable, the crackling of the ignited wood was like the reports of pistols, the dense pall of smoke was suffocating.

He could see scarcely three yards in advance, but to the rear the narrow lane of retreat remained open.

Standing there, as though in the mouth of a furnace, the red flames scorching his face, Brant hollowed his hands for a call.
"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.