She began to run. She could not see the crops below the hill and she feared what she would find there, knowing already what had happened but still unwilling to believe it. Her breath came ragged and she coughed at the mere sight of the smoke. At the brow of the hill she halted, overtaken and overwhelmed, unable to process the sight before her. The entire peanut field was ablaze. The wind belted it with a fury and the long arms of fire that reached toward the sky waved back and forth in a frenzy and sent out giant plumes of smoke.
Two men on skittering horses patrolled the inferno, torches in hand, galloping about belligerently, then circling back to meet at a safe distance. The damage was so complete that Isabelle could feel her own insides, her very soul, burning up right along with the plants before her. She was both dazzled and horrified by the fanglike shadows of the flames groping toward the trees, claiming all in their path. The men had their faces hidden. They appeared to be arguing, gesturing wildly, and when the fire crept near them, they turned and disappeared into the night.
Her ankles were slick with sweat; her eyes watered from the smoke. What have you done? This was all she could say to herself, repeating the words like a refrain as she walked back toward the cabin, lost in a daze. What have you done? She was shaken but she wasn’t afraid. Of course she was pained by her husband’s work being ravaged, his land ruined, but no greater threat would befall her at the cabin. Those men would have needed to look no farther than her weather vane to determine that this was a punishing west wind. It would not bring the fire up the hill. No, it would march in the opposite direction unimpeded, feeding on everything it found. What have you done? It would barrel through the tree line along Stage Road itself, devouring first Ted Morton’s home, then Henry Pershing’s and all that came after. She hoped the riders had gone to warn the others, but judging by its size, and the wind, there would be no stopping their creation regardless. From the cabin it was a stampede of red streaked against the sky. The blaze would reach Old Ox by morning, and the town would have no means sufficient to prevent the coming devastation.
CHAPTER 23
They traveled through the day, then through the start of the night, and when George grew weary he took care to hide his suffering. With daylight things had been easier. They had passed the county line long before sundown, and although the forest there was similar to his own property, with the same animal life, the same trees, it still felt unexplored—another world for him to learn and memorize, each step forward tracked on the map he was drawing in his mind. The creek grew wider the farther north they ventured and the flora turned an exceptional shade of green, with leaves so thick he thought they belonged in a jungle. He’d known the land would grow into something of a bog—he’d heard tell of this from many other travelers who’d left the county this way—but he’d never seen the transformation himself. Caleb informed him that the creek would meet the river in another day’s time, and that George had not seen anything so powerful as the water of the rapids. He believed his son, for already everywhere he looked there were unbelievable sights, nominations of splendor put forth by nature and presented with such grandeur he felt a tinge of regret that all he’d needed to do to find a new world of such beauty was to leave town, yet it had taken him a lifetime to make the journey.
When at last they made to rest, deep into the night, he was still juggling the images of the day in his mind and only that distraction was enough to keep him lucid as he rolled out his bedding.
“They’ll be looking for a fire,” Caleb said. “Best we stay in the dark.”
George was already lying down as the boys began to eat.
“George,” Prentiss said, and held out a jar of fruit.
George waved it away. “Perhaps when we’re up,” he said. “It’s only a few hours.”
For a time he thought of Isabelle—imagined her asleep beside him—but then his mind went blank and he dozed. He woke to a curtain of darkness and rose in a huff. Until his sight settled, the fresh smell of dirt and pine was the only sensation on offer. Then he made out Caleb in the roll next to his. The roll beside Caleb’s was empty, and he had to squint to distinguish the silhouette of Prentiss, standing ramrod straight, embedded in the night. He was guarding their campsite with the same scrupulous focus he’d applied to his work back at the farm, and he seemed both perfectly comfortable and perfectly alert, two qualities George could hardly claim for himself in the present circumstance.
He walked over to Prentiss and asked if he’d seen anything.