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The teamster called to Crawford. "Here's another load o' grub, boss. Miss Joyce she rustled up them canteens you was askin' for." Crawford stepped over to the wagon. "Don't reckon we'll need the canteens, Hank, but we can use the grub fine. The fire's about out." "That's bully. Say, I got news for you, Mr. Crawford. Brad Steelman's dead. They found him in his house, shot plumb through the head.
Lad knew nothing of this; nor why the advance of the fire's direct line had been so long checked. Nor did he know, presumably, that this sickle of flame was girdling the mountain-flank; like a murderous net; hemming in all live things within the flaming arc and forcing them on in panic, ahead of its advance.
"I'm glad that fire's well out," said Briscoe quietly, as he looked back. "Indians are not very likely to be about at night, but if a canoe were coming along the river and the paddlers saw a fire up there, you may depend upon it they would land to see what was the matter." "That's for certain," said Lynton.
Tom and Charlie went through the hall, dragging the two lines with them, and the hose was soon reeled back on the engine. "Guess we've done our share," declared Mr. Sagger, as he called to his men of the bucket brigade. "The fire's out!" "Well, I can't say that we did it all," Confessed Mr. Appelby. "The boys did the most of it." "We could have done it without them," asserted the butcher.
"Come, girls," Nyoda called cheerily, "'Fire's gwine out, time to sing 'Mammy Moon' and then go home." She poked the last embers of the fire into a little blaze, and the light and the lively measures of the song took Oh-Pshaw's mind off the gurgling water. "Cross my heart, Mammy Moon, Termorrer I'll be an angel coon, I'll be a chile dat'll make you smile, Good o-l-e Mam-my M-o-o-n!"
The lake had checked the fire's advance to the eastward and the wind had driven the flames north toward the mountains. Further and further away traveled the flames painting the sky a sinister color and producing a spectacle that the scouts never forgot.
They found Sammy, in a clean blue shirt and a hat less like a Feejee headpiece, willing to do the honors of the Island, beaming like a freckled young merman as he paddled out to pull up the boats. "Fire's all ready for kindlin', and Ruth's slicin' the pertaters.
A blast of wind brought in a sheet of rain that dampened the ashes swept from the fireplace by the sudden draught. "O-oh, Doctor!" came a voice from the rider on the other side of the fence. "Hullo! Who are you?" "Bud Yarebrough. Ah got a letter fo' you." "Well, light, ye fool, and put yo' beast under the shack." The Doctor slammed the door and shivered back into the range of the fire's glow.
"Your fire's all right now, Bobbie," Don said distinctly. Tim turned up his nose and faced in Wally Woods's direction. But Wally's fire, small and compact, gave him no excuse to tinker. He advanced to where Andy Ford was preparing to fry his meat. "Gee!" he said. "That sure is one sick-looking fire." "Suits me," said Andy. He laid the meat in the pan. Tim began to prod the fire with his foot.
"Wal, I reckon we won't hev the good of them two thousand tons of alfalfa we was figgerin' on," remarked Stillwell. "Ah! Then that last outbreak of fire was burning hay," said Madeline. "I do not regret the rancho. But it's too bad to lose such a quantity of good feed for the stock." "It's lost, an' no mistake. The fire's dyin' as quick as she flared up.
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