“Don’t you know better than to smoke here?” blazed Wilkinson.
The fisherman brazenly replaced the cigarette between his lips. Wilkinson’s arm shot forward like a flash to pluck the offending weed from the mouth of the astonished youth. “I wish we had a law to prevent smoking in the woods. I would take great pleasure in arresting you,” he growled savagely as he pinched the fire from the cigarette and ground it under his heel.
Unnoticed by the Forest Ranger, the second man removed his cigarette furtively and with a flirt of his hand threw it behind him as he rose to his feet.
“You are too damned officious! You have no authority to prevent us smoking,” he said angrily, as with clenched fists he advanced belligerently.
Wilkinson was near the breaking point. The weeks of worry, the long hours of arduous toil, and the lack of sleep had frayed his nerves. “Damn you!” he flared, “if it’s a fight you want——” He broke off suddenly, his eyes wide and staring. “My God! look!” he shouted. A flare of flame shot from the spot where the cigarette had fallen. A breeze rustled through the trees to fan the flame to a drumming roar as a pile of slash caught fire. The Red Terror was loosed.
“Fire!” shouted Donald as he stumbled to the road.
“Fire!” rang the cry down the line until the call reached the mill, and every whistle was loosed in a screaming bedlam of sound to blanch the cheeks of these hardy men, who knew the awful terror of this devastating, devouring, fiery scourge that blasts the wilderness with smoke and ashes and takes its toll of both man and beast. Men dropped their tools and ran to answer the call.
The trapper’s dugout shot swiftly across the lake.
Connie lay reading in the shade of her cabin. She came to her feet at the whistle’s first call for help. A moment later, seated astride her cayuse, she was galloping down the hill.
Every man, regardless of position, answers the call to fight fire. When a forest fire is raging the forest ranger is an absolute sovereign. He can call the lawyer from his desk or the labourer from the ditch, but seldom does he need to exercise this power, as every good citizen is willing to help stay the deadly scourge. Meanwhile the fire was leaping from heap to heap of the powder-like slash to cross the road and sweep up the hill with incredible speed. With a throbbing roar it hissed to the tree-tops and rushed up the mountain. Stifling smoke enveloped the fire-fighters. Showers of burning bark pelted them from above.