“Three or four days,” Scott grumbled in disgust; “the fires may all be out by that time.”
“Don’t you fool yourself,” the foreman answered him. “Those fires are not in the habit of going out of themselves even in three or four weeks. Nothing short of a week’s rain or an army can put them out now.”
“I’ll bet if it does blow it will be from the south,” Bill grunted; “there’s a conspiracy to do us out of part of our rightful education.”
As the foreman moved off chuckling, he called back over his shoulder:
“The wagons are all packed ready to start, and I’ll bet pop for the crowd that we’re on the fireline somewhere in thirty-six hours.”
“Done,” yelled a half-dozen voices at once.
“Better sleep while you can,” the voice called back, “you won’t get much at the fire. Good night.”
“Sort of a poor bet,” Bill mused, “because he is the man who can order us out; but I’m willing to pay up all right for the chance, if we have to go ten miles to find the fire.”
“Well,” Morris yawned, “I guess he’s right about the sleep, anyway, and I’m going to turn in.”
Everyone else seemed to be of the same opinion and they filed off to bed. In half an hour the chorus of snores rolling up from the upper porches bore witness to the fatigues of the day’s hike and complete loss of interest in the fire situation. The stillness of the forest—really made up of the countless small noises of the insects, birds, and roaming night-walkers of the animal world—settled over everything. Not a leaf stirred. Even the columns of black smoke which rolled up incessantly on the horizon thinned out to a wavering gray streak as the dampness of the night cooled the ferocity of the fires.
In spite of the stillness and the favorable prospects of a peaceful night a faint light still glowed in the office and the foreman, ready dressed, slept on a couch beside the telephone. About midnight the lonely call of a timber wolf brought an answering hoot from an old owl in a neighboring swamp, and as though in recognition of these gruesome sounds of life a shiver passed through the leaves of the aspen trees. It must have penetrated to the marrow of their limbs for they continued to shiver more and more violently long after the reverberating echoes of the night calls had died away. Here and there little ripples appeared on the surface of the glassy lake. A dull roar to the southward, like the groan of a mighty monster would have caused the city man to murmur “Thunder,” and roll over for another nap, but to the foreman who sat up wide-eyed in his couch at the first rumble, it spoke of the winds in the pines and no gentle breeze at that.