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 Juan turned to follow it, knowing that fire must have cut off its escape. He must go back along the ridge toward the western point, looking for an opening, let it be never so steep and the chance of passing it never so desperate, that would let them down the northern side of the mountain to the security of the valley. The barring brushwood limbs tore Don Geronimo's wounds. Whether he was conscious of this added torture Juan did not know, but he was assured by the flow of blood that Don Geronimo was still alive. He tore off his jacket and struggled with the crazy horse while he fastened it over Don Geronimo's bleeding back. On again, retracing the way he had come.

A blast of hot wind struck him as he left the shelter of the greasewood thicket, staggering him, setting him back momentarily blinded and gasping. It was a breaker of fire, a surge of stifling smoke streaked with flying points of flame. Close on his heels this outrunning wave of fire caught the greasewood jungle, leaping high, rolling a sudden burst of black smoke as from a broadside of cannon-shots.

Juan bent against the hurricane that swept the mountain top, struggling blindly on, the horse singularly passive beside him. Its panic seemed to have given way to a trembling paralysis of fear, in which it realized that a greater intelligence would guide it through the wild sowing of fire. Juan felt the skin of his face tighten, the hiss of fire as it crinkled his hair. The horse was singed. Don Geronimo's