But to the fugitive the threatened storm meant nothing. The warfare of the elements could tear no deeper than the warfare of his own soul; the fire-edged death from heaven would furnish honourable end to a discouraging struggle. Avoiding the main roads, he made his way into the country, but on every trail were rigs driving by at high speed. The drivers and occupants were much too concerned with the problem of getting home dry and safe to pay attention to pedestrians on the road, and he walked on mechanically, confident that none recognised him and that none cared.
The early darkness closed down quickly; the great cloud in advance of the storm, rolling in the heavens like a mighty fish, had swept far to the eastward; the lightning now played in dazzling flashes from cloud to cloud and from cloud to earth, its zig-zag course marking the rarer atmospheres, and accompanied by a growing, growling chorus of thunder as the menagerie of the skies roared and crackled on the crest of the storm. The blinding light left the eyes useless in the dark, and it was with difficulty Burton followed the trail.
Presently the rain came on. Swept by a mighty wind that overturned more than one top buggy that night, a few great, scattered drops dashed against the ground, then the wind subsided and was followed by a sudden stillness so intense it could be felt. But it was for an instant; a great rift of lightning shook the clouds asunder and their pent-up load of moisture poured out upon the earth. In a moment Burton was drenched to the skin; the prairie roads were running in water; and as he floundered on a cold wind struck him that brought a shiver, not for himself, but for the farmers whose fortunes were all on the growing fields. Then the thought came to him that if he should be caught unprotected in the hail he would be killed. He had faced the lightning without fear, but the prospect of being gradually pummelled to death was not inviting, and he began to look about for some place of shelter. It was not until now that he realised he had paid no attention to the course he took, and although most of the country was familiar to him in daylight he had no idea where he was. To his great relief a warm breeze sprung up, which indicated that the hail strip was narrow and had probably chosen another course, and he struggled on through mud and water hoping that every flash of lightning would reveal some place of shelter. But the country seemed strangely desolate, and the night must have been half spent before he caught an instant’s glance of a building. He pressed toward it, and another flash revealed a deserted log hut which he now recalled as being only a few miles from town and but a short way from the main road that led to Grant’s. The windows were gone and the door was off its hinges, but it would at least be better than outside, and he hurried toward it. As he did so through the darkness he fancied he saw a gleam of light in the deserted building. It was not lightning, and yet he could have sworn it was no trick of the imagination or the nerves. As he drew nearer he saw it again—a dull flicker lighting up the square framed by the empty window. Stealthily he approached the building.