se. Yet when he came to the long down-slope which
pitched into the valley so far below him, he called Satan to a halt
again, and swung to look at the house. He could hear the clatter of the
front door as it swung; it seemed to be waving a farewell to him.

It was all the work of a moment, to ride back, gather a quantity of
paper and readily inflammable materials, soak them in oil, and scratch
a match. The flames swept up the sides of the logs and caught on the
ceiling first of all, and Dan Barry stood in the center of the room
until the terrified whining of Black Bart and the teeth of the wolf-dog
at his trousers made him turn and leave the house. Outside, he found
Satan trembling between two temptations, the first to run as far and as
fast as he could from that most terrible thing--fire; and the second to
gallop straight into the blaze. The voice of the master, a touch quieted
him, and Black Bart lay down at the feet of the master and looked up
into his face.

By this time the fire had licked away a passage through the roof and
through this it sent up a yellow hand that flicked up and down like
a signal, or a beckoning, and then shot up a tall, steady, growing,
roaring column of red. No man could say what went through the mind of
Dan Barry as he stood there watching the house of his building burn, but
now he turned and threw his arms over the neck and back of Satan, and
dropped his forehead against the withers of the black. It troubled
the stallion. He turned his head, and nosed the shoulder of the master
gently, and Black Bart, in an agony of anxiety, reared up beside Dan
and brought his head almost up to the head of the man; there he whined
pleadingly for never before had he seen the master hide his face.

A deep, short report made the master stand away from Satan. The fire
had reached a small stock of powder, and the shock of the explosion was
followed by a great crashing and rending as an inner wall went down.
That fall washed a solid mass of yellow flame across the front door, but
the fire fell back, and then Dan saw the doll which he himself had made
for Joan; it had been thrown by the smashing of the wall squarely in
front of the door, and now the fire reached after it--long arms across
the floor. It was an odd contrivance, singularly made of carved wood
and with arms and legs fastened on by means of bits of strong sinew, and
Joan prized it above all the rosy faced dolls which Kate had bought for
her. For an i