Ben Blair | Page 9

stop at his
present abode, and had made him apparently a fixture in the midst of
this unconquered country.
There was no road in the direction Rankin was travelling,--only the
unbroken prairie sod, eaten close by the herds that grazed its every foot.
Even under the direct sunlight the air was sharp. The regular breath of
the mustangs shot out like puffs of steam from the exhaust of an engine,
and the moisture frosted about their flanks and nostrils. But the big man
on the seat did not notice temperature. He had produced a pipe from the
depths beneath the wagon seat, and tobacco from a jar cunningly fitted
into one corner of the box, both without moving from his place, the seat
being hinged and divided in the centre to facilitate the operation. More
a home to him than the ranch-house itself was that battered buckboard.
Here, on an average, he spent eight hours out of the twenty-four, and

that seat-box was a veritable storehouse of articles used in his daily life.
As the jog-trot measured off the miles he replenished the pipe again
and again, leaving behind him the odor of strong tobacco.
Not until he was within a mile of the "Big B" property, and a rise in the
monotonous roll of the land brought him in range of vision, did Rankin
show that he felt more than ordinary interest in his expedition; then,
shading his eyes, he looked steadily ahead. The sod barn stood in its
usual place; the corral, with its posts set close together, stretched by its
side; but where the house had stood there could not be distinguished
even a mound. The hand on the reins tightened meaningly, and in
sympathy the mustangs moved ahead at a swifter pace, leaving behind
a trail of tobacco-smoke denser than before.
* * * * *
When the little Benjamin Blair, fugitive, had literally taken to the earth,
it was with definite knowledge of the territory he was entering. He had
often explored its depths with childish curiosity, to the distress of his
mother and the disgust of the rightful owner, the mongrel dog.
Retreating to the farther end of the cave, the instinct of
self-preservation set hands and feet to work like the claws of a gopher,
filling with loose dirt the narrow passage through which he had entered.
Panting and perspiring with the effort, choked with the dust he raised,
all but suffocated, he dug until his strength gave out; then, curling up in
his narrow quarters, he lay listening. At first he heard nothing, not even
a sound from the dog; and he wondered at the fact. He could not
believe that Tom Blair would leave him in peace, and he breathlessly
awaited the first tap of an instrument against his retreat. A minute
passed, lengthened to five--to ten--and with the quick impatience of
childhood he started to learn the reason of the delay. His active little
body revolved in its nest. In the darkness a wiry arm scratched at the
recently erected barricade. A head with a tousled mass of hair poked its
way into the opening, crowded forward a foot--two feet, then stopped,
the whole body quivering. He had passed the curve, and of a sudden it
was as though he had opened the door of a furnace and gazed inside.
Instead of the familiar room, a great sheet of flame walled him in.

Instead of silence, a roar as of a hurricane was in his ears. Never in his
life had he seen a great fire, but instantly he understood. Instantly the
instinctive animal terror of fire gripped him; he retreated to the very
depths of the kennel, and burying his small head in his arms lay still.
But not even then, child though he was, did he utter a cry. The
endurance which had made Jennie Blair stare death impassively in the
face was part and parcel of his nature.
For the space of perhaps a minute Ben lay motionless. Louder than
before came to his ears the roar of the fire. Occasionally a hot tongue of
flame intruded mockingly into the mouth of his retreat. The confined
air about him grew close, narcotic. He expected to die, and with the
premonition of death an abnormal activity came to the child-brain.
Whatever knowledge he possessed of death was connected with his
mother. It was she who had given him his vague impression of another
life. She herself, as she lay silent and unresponsive, had been the first
concrete example of it. Inevitably thought of her came to him
now,--practical, material thought, crowding from his brain the blind
terror that had been its predecessor. Where was his mother now? He
pictured again the furnace into which he had gazed from the mouth