the flames, spurred by a freshening wind, made league-consuming strides.
Anxiously he consulted the Indian. But his questions gained Alan little comfort from Jacob, who said that rain alone could stop the flames. After recommending forced marches to bring them by to-morrow's noon to the spot he called Spirit Lake, where canoes might be found to aid their flight, the Indian withdrew into sullen reserve.
They travelled far and fast before sundown, then again paused for food and rest. As Jacob set about preparing the meal, Alan stumbled off to whip the little trail-side stream for trout.
Perhaps a hundred yards upstream, the back-lash of a careless cast hooked the State of Maine. Too tired even to remember the appropriate words, Alan scrambled ashore, forced through the undergrowth that masked the trail, found his fly, set the State of Maine free, and swinging on his heel brought up standing, transfixed by the discovery of a rectangle of white pasteboard fixed to the trunk of a sapling: a Trey of Hearts, of which each pip had been neatly punctured by a .22 calibre bullet.
Nor had it been long there: when Alan scrutinized it he found the card innocent of weather-stains, the pin unrusted that held it, the wounds in the sapling raw and damp.
He carried it back to camp, meaning to consult
