finger on the revolver trigger he could save this girl he loved the final horror of a fiery death. One shock, one sweep through the darkness, and then peace: not the slow agony of the enfolding flames. He could not do better service. He was the shepherd still.
"Yes," he promised. "I'll do it—at the end of the hour. And the dog too."
It was only fair to include the dog. He was one of the triumvirate. He had kept faith, he had stood the test. The moments were born, passed and died. The tall trees caught, flamed, and fell. The smoke clouds gathered, enfolded the three of them, and passed on.
They were nearly blind from the wood smoke, the heat had become almost too much for living flesh to bear. There was no need of waiting longer, perhaps to fall into unconsciousness from the smoke and then to waken to feel the flames licking at the flesh. The wall of fire was still nearly a mile distant to the west, but its march was swift. Hugh's terror had gone, and he found himself longing for such cool peace as would follow the third revolver shot.
The girl's lips pressed his. She knew the progress of his thoughts. "There's no use of waiting any longer," she said unwaveringly. "Let me be the first."
"The dog first," he told her. He couldn't get away from an all-engrossing desire to keep her with him to the end, and to spring out of life
