CHAPTER TEN

A Temporary Victory

Shortly after 3:00 A.M. Quiz Taylor aroused Sandy and Jerry, who were asleep in the supply truck.

“Come on, they need us!” he told them excitedly. “The fire has really busted loose again.”

Sandy sat up groggily, rubbing his eyes. “Whazza matter? Wha’ happened?”

“There’s a real southwester blowing up. The fire has crowned again—you should see it! She may leap the ridge!”

“Leap the ridge!” Sandy sat up ramrod-straight, jolted into full wakefulness. “Good night! Let’s go!” He and Jerry slipped on their boots and laced them frantically.

The sight that greeted them as they leaped out of the truck was frightening. To the east, as far as the eye could see, the canopy of the forest was one massive sheet of writhing, twisting fire. Long, forked tongues of flame leaped high into the sky, whipped about by the strong breeze blowing from the southwest. The head of the fire had veered off sharply and was attacking the ridge on a quarter-mile front which was widening every second.

The boys hurried over to Dick Fellows, who was talking into the walkie-talkie and scribbling frantically on a pad. As soon as the conversation ended, he tore off the sheet he had been writing on and handed it to Sandy.

“Make sure every gang boss on the ridge sees this,” he said tersely. “If she crosses the ridge, they’re to pull out their crews at once and retreat to the road. If this wind keeps up, we might not even be able to hold her there.”

For the first time, Sandy was aware of the loose debris blowing across the clearing. As he took the paper from the ranger, it almost blew out of his hand. In the unburned portion of the forest, the treetops were rustling nervously. It sounded like a lament, Sandy thought.

Dick looked at Jerry. “We’ve pulled most of the men out of the south line already. Landers feels that we should abandon it altogether for the present. Suppose you run down there and notify them, Jerry. Tell ’em to report behind the ridge on the double. They need every man they can get. Quiz, you stay here in case anything else important comes in.”

Sandy started up the crest of the ridge, but the ranger called to him, “Better circle around in back. It’s pretty hot up there.” He looked at the surface fire advancing slowly through the underbrush toward the clearing on the flank of the big blaze. “It won’t be long before we’ll have to get out of here. Better send back a couple of boys to move those trucks off the line.”

“Right,” Sandy said, and circled around behind the ridge.

The protected slope was teeming with men and machinery. Bulldozers scurried up and down like huge beetles, clearing off everything inflammable. Tank-trucks were moving slowly along the foot of the slope, their crews sweeping big firehoses across the face of the forest. Trees were doused from crown to root. Other smoke-eaters with hoses were lined up on the crest of the ridge like soldiers, dwarfed by the monstrous flames that seemed to arch over them threateningly. Whenever a flaming bough or a mass of burning foliage came toppling to the ground nearby, they would train a jet of fine, foglike spray on it. Watching this panorama, Sandy was once again impressed by the fact that the fire behaved at times with what seemed like animal intelligence. Time and time again, treacherous fingers of flame would stretch out to the men, driving them back behind the safety of the ridge. One such streamer actually did dart across the crest like a snake, badly burning a dozer operator.

Sandy relayed the communiqué from Fire Boss Landers to all the gang chiefs. He found Ed Macauley about a half mile down the ridge. His crew had started to build a hasty fire line at right angles to the ridge in an attempt to stop the fire racing down the edge of the forest, but they had finally abandoned it.

“Nothing short of a miracle will stop her now,” he told Sandy hopelessly.

“Isn’t there anything we can do?” the boy asked, his voice tinged with panic.

Macauley shrugged. “Not till she runs into the big firebreaks. There’s another road about two miles north of the ridge; runs east to west. With enough men we can bottle her up between the two roads. But she’ll burn off better than a thousand acres before she’s finished.”

The fire was now abreast of where they stood on the crest. A scorching wave of heat swept up the slope, bringing tears to their eyes, and forcing them to retreat behind the ridge. No longer did the men need lights to work by, for the glare of the flames lit up the countryside with an unearthly reddish glow.

Sandy was surprised to see Quiz come staggering breathlessly up to them. He handed Macauley a message. “New plan from headquarters,” he gasped.

Macauley frowned as he read it, then crumpled the paper up into a ball. “Darn waste of time, I call it.”

“What’s up?” Sandy asked.

“Landers wants to give it one more try. We’re going to build a line down at the end of the ridge.” He walked a little way up the slope and studied the head of the fire driving steadily forward before the wind.

“We’ve only got a little more than a half-mile leeway. We’re gonna have to work fast. Need every man and machine we can spare. C’mon, boys, you’re graduating to pick-and-shovel work as of now.”

The north end of the ridge terminated in a steep slide of gravel and slag. The proposed fire line was to extend due west from this rockpile for at least half a mile. As Macauley pointed out, everything was against the fire fighters. The terrain was unsuited to efficient operation of the dozers and graders; the timber was old and sturdy; and in places the trees were jammed together so tightly and their foliage so interlaced that trunks on opposite sides of the line appeared to have common crowns.

“With this wind,” the gang boss predicted, “our backfires won’t accomplish a thing. Most likely, they’ll jump the line themselves.” He sighed. “But orders is orders.”

Because of the time element, the heavy machinery just punched helter-skelter through the woods, and left the cleaning-up to the pick-and-shovel crews. Behind them came the water wagons, wetting down the brush and trees on the safe side of the line.

Quiz Taylor and Sandy Steele were assigned to a crew of ax men. Jerry James, who had come along about a half hour later, landed a soft job manning a hose. But when the overly plump Quiz collapsed at the side of the trail, Jerry generously offered to swap jobs with him.

“Not permanently, you understand, old boy,” he warned Quiz. “Just until you get your wind back.”

Within a half hour, Sandy’s hands were covered with blisters and his clothes were plastered to his body. Sweat poured down his face, blinding him and caking into mud as it mixed with the dust. His legs felt as if they were made of cast-iron, and he could barely lift one foot after the other.

Enviously, he watched Quiz riding on the back of the water truck. The sight of the fine jet spray gave him a sudden inspiration.

“Hey, Quiz!” he shouted. “Turn that thing on us for a while.”

“Good idea, son,” one of the smoke-eaters said, and the rest of them picked up the chant. “Let ’er rip, boy.”

Quiz obligingly swerved the nozzle in their direction and they were engulfed in cooling mist. Sandy opened his mouth wide and let the water soothe his swollen tongue and parched throat. After five minutes of this, they went back to work with renewed energy.

The line was completed in record time, but none too soon. The fire front was only about 200 yards away when Macauley gave the order to backfire. Although the front was less than 1200 feet wide, the flame-thrower crews ignited the fringe along the line for a full half mile. The boys, resting with the pick-and-shovel men on the north tip of the ridge, watched anxiously as the backfires flared up strong in the dry brush and foliage. Innumerable times, the flames leaped the line to attack the trees on the far side, but each time the dripping wet boughs repulsed them.

“Looks as if we’ll stop her,” Sandy said with elation.

One of the fire fighters shook his head gloomily. “The backfire ain’t getting anywhere though.”

It was true. The backfires were making only slight progress toward the head of the fire, which was racing forward with incredible speed.

“You know what?” Quiz said hesitantly. “I think the wind is beginning to die down.”

“Aw, it’s your imagination,” Jerry said wearily.

“No, he’s right,” another man exclaimed. “She’s slowing down.”

Sandy studied the flames closely. He didn’t notice any perceptible difference in the rate of the fire, but he did notice that the smoke appeared to be rising in a more nearly vertical direction. Then, almost miraculously it seemed, the breeze died abruptly.

“My gosh!” Jerry said wonderingly. “It’s as if somebody turned off a fan.”

Quiz called their attention to the broad band of silver on the eastern horizon. “Look, it’s almost daylight. That’s the answer. It mostly always calms down at dawn and dusk.”

The fire fighters let out a thunderous cheer that was picked up all along the fire line. Macauley came striding up the slope, a big grin on his face.

“Looks like the chief outguessed me,” he admitted gleefully. “She’s gonna hold.”

With the ebbing of the breeze, the backfire and the fire head were creeping toward each other with uniform speed.

“What do we do now, boss?” Jerry asked. “All go home?”

Macauley arched his eyebrows. “You kidding, son? There’s still plenty of life in that old devil yet. She could switch off in another direction any time. Once we got this front nailed down solid, we’ll attack her from the sides and back. There’s still plenty of digging to be done for those who can swing a shovel.”

“That definitely lets me out,” Quiz groaned. “I don’t think I could even pick up a shovel, I’m so beat.”

Macauley stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Well, I gotta admit you boys have done more than a man’s share of work for one night.”

“No,” Sandy protested, even though his knees were threatening to buckle. “I’ll stick it out with you fellows.”

“Me too,” Jerry said valiantly.

Macauley smiled. “You boys are all right. But you need to rest. We all do, for that matter. Suppose you make tracks back to headquarters and tell the chief to get another crew in here to relieve us.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” Sandy said, with undisguised relief. “I guess we should report back to Dick Fellows, anyway.”

“He was down here himself just a while back,” one of the men volunteered. “Looking for you boys, I think.”

“Come on, let’s go find him,” Sandy said.

By the time they got back to the command post at the other end of the ridge, it was broad daylight. Dick Fellows was directing a crew fighting a small brushfire at the edge of the clearing. Beyond them the woods was a charred, smoldering carpet. The tree trunks were blackened and burned for about ten feet up their trunks; but the fire had not crowned.

“Heard you were looking for us,” Sandy announced. “We were fighting a fire.”

The ranger grinned. “So I heard. How do things look up there? Does Macauley think she’ll hold?”

“He’s got his fingers crossed. He wants to know when his men are going to get some relief.”

Dick wiped his soot-streaked face with his sleeve. “Just as soon as we can. Landers put a call out for more volunteers when she took off like that last night. He had a crew all lined up, but then a report came in that there was a spot fire up north about three miles, so he sent the whole bunch of them to swarm over that one before it really gets started. It’s been a rough night.” He looked around at the men beating out the brushfires around the clearing. “I tell you what, though. I have about a dozen smoke-eaters mopping up here and along the south line. Soon as things look safe, I’ll send them down to replace a dozen of the boys down there.”

“Those men need relief bad,” Quiz declared. “They’re so bushed that they won’t be able to work efficiently for much longer.”

“I know,” Dick agreed. “You boys look pretty bushed yourselves. Why don’t you take one of the jeeps and drive back to headquarters? After a good meal and a few hours’ sleep, you’ll feel a lot better.” Ominously, he added, “We may need you again.”

“Why is everyone so skeptical?” Sandy demanded. “Don’t you believe that line will hold now?”

The ranger’s face was grim. “There’s nothing on this earth as unpredictable as a forest fire. I won’t believe she’s really out until I personally squash the last ember under my boot.”

Quiz stared off into the ravaged grove at the other side of the clearing. “Those trees, will they die?” he asked the ranger.

“A tree is like a human being,” Dick explained. “It can survive some pretty bad burns, although it may be scarred badly. Underneath the bark there’s a thin layer of living matter called the cambium, which can be compared with the underskin on a human being—the dermis. If the fire burns through the outer bark all around the trunk and kills the cambium, the tree dies. Fortunately, the bark usually burns through only on the side of the tree facing the advancing flames. It depends on the age of the tree and the thickness of the bark. I think most of those old fellows along the fringe of the fire will pull through. Not much chance for any others.” He sighed. “Well, I guess Sandy and Jerry aren’t interested in hearing a botany lecture right now.”

Quiz smiled wanly. “Even _I’m_ not interested in botany right now. Let’s go eat, fellows.”