There was no
answer, but a growing roar outside apparently drowned his voice. It
was dark in this room. He felt along the wall, the fireplace, the
corner. Allie was not there. The room was empty. His hands groping
low along the floor came in contact with the bag he had left in
Allie's charge. It contained the papers he had taken the precaution
to save. Probably in her flight to escape from the burning cabin she
had dropped it. But that was not like Allie: she would have clung to
the bag while strength and sense were hers. Perhaps she had not
gotten out of the cabin. Neale searched again, growing more and more
aware of the strife outside. He heard the crackling of wood over his
head. Evidently the cabin was burning like tinder. There were men in
the back room, fighting, yelling, crowding. Neale could see only
dim, burly forms and the flashes of guns. Smoke floated thickly
there. Some one, on the inside or outside, was beating out the door
with an axe.
He decided quickly that whatever Allie might have done she would not
have gone into that room. He retraced his steps, groping, feeling
everywhere in the dark.
Suddenly the crackling, the shots, the yells ceased, or were drowned
in a volume of greater sound. Neale ran to the window. The flare
from the burning tents was dying down.
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