"Who? Be cool now, Johnny, and help me. Who did it?"
"Two men. They had things over their faces and they were loco and they never—never—" Johnny's voice trailed into an incoherent muttering.
Douglas jammed up the receiver and leaped back up the stairs. He spoke hurriedly to Peter. "They've got the preacher. I can't get sense out of Johnny. You take care of Jude."
He jerked on his mackinaw and darted for the door. Peter followed him into the cold starlight.
"Wait a moment, Doug. You'd better let me give a general alarm."
"Maybe they're all in on it!" Douglas paused with his hand on the pommel of his saddle. Then he gave a hoarse cry, pointing as he did so at Dead Line Peak. "Peter! There's a fire up there!"
He leaped into the saddle and drove the spurs home. The Moose broke into a gallop. A moment later there were shouts on the trail behind him.
"Keep going, old trapper! The birthday party is with you!" roared Jimmy Day.
Douglas did not reply. He saw the flames leap higher as he covered the miles. He felt rage mounting swiftly within him, rage that was akin to what he had felt over the shooting of old Prince, but a thousand times more poignant. But he handled the old Moose coolly. Up the ever-rising trail, between drifted fences, up and up, with the Moose groaning for breath, until the quivering aspens showed clear and black against the leaping flames.
He threw himself from his horse, conscious now of a confusion of voices behind him, of dogs barking, horses groaning and squealing, and coyotes shrieking excitedly
