e of defense, and in a dozen places the forest would
break into flame. The fire worked far up the slope, but its greatest
menace lay in its steady creep westward. Slowly it ate up to the very
edge of Hollister's timber, in spite of all their checks, their
strategy, the prodigious effort of every man to check its vandal
course.

Then the west wind, which had held its breath so long, broke loose
with unrestrained exhalation. It fanned the fire to raging fury, sent
it leaping in yellow sheets through the woods. The blaze lashed
eagerly over the tops of the trees, the dreaded crown fire of the
North Woods. Where its voice had been a whisper, it became a roar, an
ominous, warning roar to which the loggers gave instant heed and got
themselves and their gear off that timbered slope.

They could do no more. They had beaten it in the valley. Backed by the
lusty pressure of the west wind, it drove them off the hill and went
its wanton way unhindered.

In the flat by Hollister's house the different crews came together.
There was not one of them but drooped with exhaustion. They sat about
on the parched ground, on moss, against tree trunks, and stared up the
hill.

Already the westerly gale had cleared the smoke from the lower valley.
It brought a refreshing coolness off the salt water, and it was also
baring to their sight the spectacular destruction of the forest.

All that area where Hollisters cedars had stood was a red chaos out of
which great flames leaped aloft and waved snaky tongues, blood-red,
molten gold, and from which great billows of smoke poured away to
wrap in obscurity all the hills beyond. There was nothing they could
do now. They watched it apathetically, too weary to care.

Hollister looked on the destruction of his timber most stolidly of
all. For days he had put forth his best effort. His body ached. His
eyes smarted. His hands were sore. He had done his best without
enthusiasm. He was not oppressed so greatly as were some of these men
by this vast and useless destruction. What did it matter, after all? A
few trees more or less! A square mile or two of timber out of that
enormous stand. It was of no more consequence in the sum total than
the life of some obscure individual in the teeming millions of the
earth. It was his timber. So was his life a possession peculiar to
himself. And neither seemed greatly to matter; neither did matter
greatly to any one but himself.

It was all a muddle. He was very ti