Donald shouted a quick cry of warning to the men who were in danger of being cut off by this break. They came on the double quick, just in time, as a lurid wall of flame shot up the hill over the path they had traversed.
“Are the men all out?” questioned Donald.
“Andy isn’t here!” said one of the men excitedly.
Donald seized the speaker’s arm. “Was Andy with you?”
Donald’s face set in grim lines. Whirling quickly, he ran straight toward the line of fire. With a bound Connie was on her horse and after him at a swift trot. As he neared the screen of smoke, Pegasus changed his gait to that of a mad runaway, and with the small rider lying prone on his bare back disappeared from view.
At this spot the fire had spent its fury in the first mad rush, but a heavy smoke welled up from the charred ground. Terror possessed the horse, but the calm voice of his mistress urged him on. Crimson embers showered about her. Scorching heat fanned her face as if the doors of a blast furnace had been opened. A blazing branch fell with a rushing sound, barely missing the horse’s head. Sharp reports from the tree-tops made the plucky cayuse shy in a panic of fear.
Filled with apprehension, the crowd of fire-fighters stared with tense anxiety into the drifting smoke. Then a glad cheer burst from them as horse and rider emerged: Andy clinging to Connie’s stirrup, and Donald swaying drunkenly in the rear. Ready hands held water to Andy’s parched lips and bathed his hot face as he lay panting on the ground. He sat up with an effort and looked about him. “Where’s Connie?” he asked. But Connie had stolen quietly from the scene.
By mid-afternoon the main body of the fire was apparently under control, but the persistent spot-fires kept the entire crew engaged. A huge cottonwood, standing just within the fire-breaks, was the chief offender. Sparks from its lofty blazing top were floated by the breeze to land on the dry ground, starting innumerable fires.
“That tree will have to come down or we will be fighting spot-fires indefinitely,” said Wilkinson.
Silence fell. Everyone of those lumber-jacks knew the danger attached to the falling of a rotten, blazing tree. In sound timber the skilled “faller” can cut the scarf and drive the falling-wedge to lay the tree within six inches of the desired spot. With a hollow tree the task is much more difficult, as in the soft, decayed pulp the wedge may not provide sufficient leverage to swing the enormous weight, and the tree may crash from any angle.