Then the smoke rolled up to them, and when eager hands drew bridle at last, a youthful voice rose breathlessly out of it: "Stapleton a good first, but he'll go back on weight.

It used to be black and orange when he was at home." There was a ripple of hoarse laughter, a gasping cheer, and then silence, for now their play was over, and it was with the grim quietness, which is not unusual with their kind, the men of Silverdale turned towards the fire.

It rolled towards the homestead, a waving crimson wall, not fast, but with remorseless persistency, out of the dusky prairie, and already the horses were plunging in the smoke of it.
That, however, did not greatly concern the men, for the bare fire furrows stretched between themselves and it; but there was also another blaze inside the defenses, and, unless it was checked, nothing could save house and barns and granaries, rows of costly binders, and stock of prairie hay.

They looked for a leader, and found one ready, for Winston's voice came up through the crackle of the fire: "Some of you lead the saddle-horses back to the willows and picket them.

The rest to the stables and bring out the working beasts.