The cabin, with its pitch-filled logs, was like a box made of tinder, and a score of men could not have beat out the fire that was raging now.

The wind beating from the west had kept it from reaching the door opening into the corral, but the pitch was hissing and smoking at the threshold as Philip plunged through the blinding pall and fumbled for the latch.
Not ten seconds too soon did he stagger with his burden out into the night.

As the wind drove in through the open door the flames seemed to burst in a sudden explosion and the cabin was a seething snarl of flame.

It burst through the window and out of the chimney and Philip's path to the open gate was illumined by a fiery glow.

Not until he had passed beyond the stockade to the edge of the forest did he stop and look back.