It was twice as heavy now, but he was twice as strong, for he was twice
as desperate and had the strength of an unconquerable purpose. The lips
of his big mouth were drawn tight, his shock of hair hung about his
stolid face as with bulldog strength and tenacity he dragged the dead
weight of dripping canvas after him up onto the shore. The water
trickled out of its clinging folds as he raised one side of the soaking
fabric, and dragged the whole mass up to the provision cabin.
He seized the coil of lasso rope and hung it around his neck, then
raising the canvas, he pulled it over his head like a shawl and pinned
it about him with the steel clutch of his fingers, one hand at neck and
one below.
Up through the blazing woods he started with the leaden weight of this
dripping winding sheet upon him and catching in the hubbly obstructions
in his path. The water streamed down his face and he felt the chill of
it as it permeated his clothes, but that was well--it was his only
friend and ally now.
Like some ghostly bride he stumbled up through the lurid night, dragging
the unwieldly train behind him. Apparently no one saw this strange
apparition as it disappeared amid the enveloping flames.
"Tom--whar's Tom?" called Jeb Rushmore again.
Up the hill he went, tearing his dripping armor when it caught, and
pausing at last to lift the soaking train and wind that about him also.
The crackling flames gathering about him like a pack of hungry wolves
hissed as they lapped against his wet shroud, and drew back, baffled,
only to assail him again.
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