"G.o.d," he prayed, "please put out this fire and save my mamma from burning!"

The small hands loosened and the lips parted to hear the first diminution in the growl of the flame. But it roared on.

"G.o.d!" The hands were clasped again, the voice vibrant with pleading.

"G.o.d, please put out the fire! Please put it out!"

Silence again within, but without only the steady roaring crackle. Could it be possible the pet.i.tion had not been heard? The childish hands met more tightly than before. The small body fairly writhed.

"G.o.d! G.o.d!" he implored for the third time. "Listen to me, please! Save my mamma, my mamma!"

For a moment the little figure lay still. Surely there would be an answer now. His mamma had said there would be, and whatever his mamma had told him had always come true. The air about him was so close he could scarcely breathe; but he did not notice it. Reversing head and feet, he started out of the kennel. It was certainly time to leave. The roar he had heard must have been of the wind. a.s.suredly G.o.d had acted before this. Head first, gasping, he moved on, reached the curve, and looked out.

Indignation took possession of the little figure. The fingers clinched until the nails bit deep into the soft palms. The whole body trembled in impotent anger and outraged self-respect. Upon the face of the small man was suddenly written the implacable defiance which one sees in carnivora when wounded and cornered--intensified as an expression can only be intensified upon a human face--as, almost unconsciously, he returned to the hollow he had left, and fairly thrust his tousled head into the kindly earth.

How long he remained there he did not know. The stifling atmosphere of the place gradually overcame him. Anger, wonder, the mult.i.tude of thoughts crowding his child-brain, slowly faded away; consciousness lapsed, and he slept.

When he awoke it was with a start and a vague wonder as to his whereabouts. Then memory returned, and he listened intently. Not a sound could he distinguish save his own breathing, as he slowly made his way to the mouth of the kennel. Before him was the opposite sod wall of the house standing as high as his head; above that, the blue of the sky; upon what had been the earthen floor, a strewing of ashes; over all, calm, glorious, the slanting rays of the low afternoon sun. A moment the boy lay gazing out; then he crawled to his feet, shaking off the dirt as a dog does. One glance about, and the blue eyes halted. A moisture came into them, gathered into drops, and then, breaking over the barrier of the long lashes, tears flowed through the acc.u.mulated grime, down the thin cheeks, leaving a clean pathway behind. That was all, for an instant; then a look--terrible in a mature person and doubly so in a child--came over the long face,--an expression partaking of both hate and vengeance. It mirrored an emotion that in a nature such as that of Benjamin Blair would never be forgotten. Some day, for some one, there would be a moment of reckoning; for the child was looking at the charred, unrecognizable corpse of his mother.

A half-hour later, Rankin, steaming into the yard of the Big B Ranch, came upon a scene that savored much of a play. It was so dramatic that the big man paused in contemplation of it. He saw there the sod and ashes of what had once been a home. The place must have burned like tinder, for now, but a few hours from the time when Grannis had first given the alarm, not an atom of smoke ascended. At one end of the quadrangular s.p.a.ce enclosed by the walls stood the makeshift stove, discolored with the heat, as was the length of pipe by its side. Near by was a heap of warped iron and tin cooking utensils. At one side, covered by an old gunny-sack and a boy's tattered coat, was another object the form of which the observer could not distinguish.

In the middle of the plat, standing a few inches below the surface, was a small boy, and in his hands a very large spade. He wore a man's discarded shirt, with sleeves rolled up at the wrist, and neck-band pinned tight at one side. Obviously, he had been digging, for a small pile of fresh dirt was heaped at his right. Now, however, he was motionless, the blue eyes beneath the long lashes observing the new-comer inquiringly. That was all, save that to the picture was added the background of the unbroken silence of the prairie.

The man was the first to break the spell. He got out of the wagon clumsily, walked around the wall, and entered the quadrangle by what had been the door.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Digging," replied the boy, resuming his work.

"Digging what?"

The boy lifted out a double handful of dirt upon the big spade.

"A grave."

The man glanced about again.

"For some pet?"

The boy shook his head.

"No--sir," the latter word coming as an after-thought. His mother had taught him that t.i.tle of respect.

Rankin changed the line of interrogation.

"Where's Tom Blair, young man?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Your mother, then, where is she?"

"My mother is dead."

"Dead?"

The child's blue eyes did not falter.

"I am digging her grave, sir."

For a time Rankin did not speak or stir. Amid the stubbly beard the great jaws closed, until it seemed the pipe-stem must be broken. His eyes narrowed, as when, before starting, he had questioned the cowboy Grannis; then of a sudden he rose and laid a detaining hand upon the worker's shoulder. He understood at last.

"Stop a minute, son," he said. "I want to talk with you."

The lad looked up.

"How did it happen--the fire and your mother's death?"

No answer, only the same strangely scrutinizing look.

Rankin repeated the question a bit curtly.

Ben Blair calmly removed the man's hand from his shoulder and looked him fairly in the eyes.

"Why do you wish to know, sir?" he asked.

The big man made no answer. Why did he wish to know? What answer could he give? He paced back and forth across the narrow confines of the four sod walls. Once he paused, gazing at the little lad questioningly, not as one looks at a child but as man faces man; then, tramp, tramp, he paced on again. At last, as suddenly as before, he halted, and glanced sidewise at the uncompleted grave.

"You're quite sure you want to bury your mother here?" he asked.

The lad nodded silently.

"And alone?"

Again the nod.

"Yes, I heard her say once she wished it so."

Without comment, Rankin removed his coat and took the spade from the boy's hand.

"I'll help you, then."

For a half-hour he worked steadily, descending lower and lower into the dry earth; then, pausing, he wiped the perspiration from his face.

"Are you cold, son?" he asked directly.

"Not very, sir." But the lad's teeth were chattering.