Chapter Ten

A WELCOME RESCUE

Janet couldn't even guess how many minutes they rested on the stream bed with the water washing away the aches in their weary bodies. As usual, Curt took the initiative when he had regained a portion of the abundant vitality that flowed through his veins.

The cowboy sat up and surveyed the scene. A dozen fires were still burning in the valley and the horizon ahead of them, tinged in crimson, marked the passing of the fire demon.

Billy Fenstow, digging sand out of his ears and sputtering heartily, was the first to speak.

"Curt, how in thunder are we ever going to get out of here?"

The cowboy shook his head.

"Walk," he moaned, looking down at the once fancy boots which had never been intended for the heavy work in which they had been used that night.

Billy Fenstow groaned in anguish.

"Then I guess I'll just settle down and wait for a flood to come along and wash me down the valley or until I come to some culvert where I'll stick."

The cameraman who had ground away steadily through the thick of the raging flames crept over to his machine. It had been subject to terrific heat and there was only a small chance that the negative had come through without serious damage.

"How many feet did you shoot?" asked the director.

The photographer squinted at the footage indicator on the camera, but there was not enough light to note the figures.

"If the film isn't ruined they'll be the best scenes of a blaze like this that have ever been filmed," he predicted.

Janet struggled into a sitting position and looked around. Her eyes sought the bus, with only faint hopes that the vehicle had come through unscathed. If it had, it would offer their one hope of escape for she felt that repairs might be made to the tires and if not, maybe they could limp along.

But her hopes were doomed to disappointment. The bus was a glowing mass of steel. Fire had swept over it, igniting the upholstery and burning out the entire interior of the bus. It was a hollow shell with gaping windows.

Curt Newsom stood up.

"There's no use sitting around here wondering what we'll do," he said. "If a couple of the boys will come along, I'll start back to the trail and we'll keep going until we find someone or can reach a telephone."

Two other cowboys joined Curt.

"The rest of you might follow us and get back as far as the ranch. Maybe there'll be a little drinking water left in that well," advised Curt as he started up the trail, hobbling painfully on his twisted boots.

Helen looked at her oxfords. They were in even worse shape than Curt's boots.

"I guess I'll have to stay here," she said, half to herself and half to Janet. "I'd never make it back to the ranch."

Janet picked up the water soaked piece of cloth she had used as a mask to shield her face.

"Wrap this around one foot and use your piece for your other foot. Then slip your oxford on loosely. That ought to ease the pain."

Helen looked grateful and tried the suggestion at once. She wrapped the damp cloth around as tightly as possible and then pulled on her shoes. It was a snug fit, but there was a soft cushion for her bruised feet to rest upon. She stood up and tried walking.

"That's much better. Thanks a lot, Janet."

Billy Fenstow took charge then.

"We'll start for the ranch and go as far as we can," he decided. "There may be some shelter there and we're in no condition to stay out any longer than necessary."

With the director in the van, the singed and tired band started back for the ranch. After a short distance they struck the trail. It was faint, but they managed to follow it without too much difficulty.

Hot blasts of air seemed to sweep down from all sides and breathing became a painful exercise again. Janet wished that she might have just one cool, sweet breath of air--just one.

Helen stumbled and Janet reached out and caught her companion before she fell.

"All right?" asked Janet anxiously, for Helen was not of as sturdy stock as she.

"I'll make it," replied Helen, the words coming from tight-set lips.

But Janet was not so sure that Helen could do it. They fell further and further behind the others, but at last they topped the final ridge and looked down in the valley where the ranch had been, where they had filmed so many scenes of "Water Hole," the new picture.

It was too dark to see the outlines of the ranchhouse but Janet could discern several large, glowing piles of embers and she knew that even the buildings at the ranch had been destroyed by the fire. Perhaps the well was still filled with pure sweet water. Her throat seemed drier at the thought and she turned her full attention to Helen, who needed a supporting arm for the final, down hill lap of their journey.

The cowboys were the first to reach the ranchyard and Janet could hear them ripping the cover off the well. There was a shout ahead of them.

"The water's okay. Hurry up!" It was one of the cowboys, and the news gave them the courage to quicken their lagging steps.

Billy Fenstow handed Janet a blackened dipper, but she insisted that Helen take the first drink. There was plenty of water and they all drank their fill while Billy Fenstow scrambled around the timbers above the well hunting for the wires which had been fastened to the film containers they had lowered into the well. He found them at last, but decided they were safer in the water than any place else.

"What about going on?" asked one of the cowboys.

"No use in that. Someone had used the dipper before we got here, so that means Curt is up ahead of us and he's traveling much faster than we could. We'll do better to wait right here where they'll find us. Try and make yourselves comfortable."

But the director's last words were of little help. The air was still dry and searing and there was no shelter anywhere. Fires still glowed all over the valley and little clouds of smoke swept around them.

Janet and Helen walked over to the ranchhouse, but the embers were glowing so brightly that it was impossible to get very close.

"I ache all over," confessed Helen. "When I finally get into bed I'm going to sleep the clock around."

"Count me in on that program," nodded Janet. "Well, we might as well sit down and keep as comfortable as possible."

But they went back to the well for another drink before trying to relax on the ground.

The men were gathered a short distance away, talking in low voices about their harrowing escape. They conversed in monotones that soon lulled the girls' tired minds and before she knew it Janet found herself dozing. They were fitful little naps, broken with sudden thoughts of the fire. Then she would snap to complete wakefulness, only to have her fatigue overcome her again. She had dozed perhaps half a dozen times when the increasing chill of the air awakened her.

Helen, curled up on the ground, was breathing steadily and deeply and had not noticed the change in the atmosphere.

Janet scanned the horizon. There was no scarlet in the northwest now--only a dense blackness that seemed to be growing thicker. The southeastern sky was still vividly flame seared.

The men had ceased their talking, but an occasional glow of a cigarette marked the dark huddle where they had gathered. A slight snore could be heard and Janet attributed it to their tubby little director. A flash of lightning illumined the mounting clouds and Janet shivered at the thought of a storm sweeping down on them after the fire.

Helen must have felt the shiver run through Janet's body for she stirred sleepily.

"I'll sleep another hour," she mumbled, and Janet knew her companion thought they were back home. There was no need to awaken Helen now. She might just as well get as much relaxation as possible.

Helen slipped back into a deep sleep and Janet kept a lone vigil. The clouds swept higher and a distant rumble of thunder came down from the hills.

The men were moving restlessly now and Janet could hear Billy Fenstow berating the weather. But there was nothing they could do about it except complain a little and then hope that someone would reach them before the coming storm broke.

Janet wondered how far Curt and the two cowboys who had gone with him had been able to travel. Perhaps their aching feet had forced them to stop. But, knowing Curt, she had a feeling that he would get through and bring help to them as soon as possible.

Helen sat up, rubbing her blood-shot eyes.

"More fire?" she asked as the rumble of the thunder smote her ears.

"Well, not quite that bad. Just a thunderstorm."

Helen shivered. "We'll catch our death of cold," she groaned, and Janet had to admit that Helen's fears were not unwarranted. After the heat of the fire and the fatigue, they would be excellent candidates for severe colds or anything else that happened along.

Several of the men who had been hunting around the ranchyard returned to the well.

"Can't even find half a board," one of them reported. "The fire swept everything clean."

Billy Fenstow turned to Janet and explained.

"I had a couple of the boys out looking for some boards or anything we could use to build a shelter for you girls."

"That was thoughtful," replied Janet, "but we'll get along all right."

Billy grumbled to himself. He wasn't so sure. The girls had stood a lot already and there was a limit to their endurance.

A patter of rain struck them, the drops sizzling as they came down on the remains of the ranchhouse.

Janet's spirits dropped and for the first time in weeks she felt like having a good, old-fashioned crying spell, but there wasn't any pillow where she could bury her head and she didn't want to cry in front of the men in the company.

The valley was hushed for a moment. Even the thunder was silent in the breathless pause that often comes just before a mid-summer storm vents its fury.

It was during this pause that Helen, watching the hills below the storm clouds, caught a flash of light. It was too low for lightning and she gripped Janet's right arm.

"There's a car coming!" she cried.

Janet turned hopefully and looked in the direction Helen pointed, but there was no sign of light and she heard an involuntary sob escape from Helen.

Then it came again, two twin beams of light cutting around a hill. Helen was right! A car was coming and Janet, unashamed, felt the tears flowing freely down her cheeks.

Billy Fenstow was talking to himself.

"I knew that lanky cowboy would do it," he said, repeating it over and over as though he were a human talking machine, stuck on a single note.

A horn sounded a warning note as the oncoming vehicle swung into the ranchyard just as the sky opened and the first sweep of rain struck the valley. Forgetting all else, they ran toward the machine, which proved to be a hulking truck, with a covered top.

Janet and Helen reached the rear. Someone reached down and pulled them under the shelter of the top. A flashlight blazed into their faces and a strong arm encircled Janet's shoulder. It was Helen's father and they knew that their worries for that eventful night were over.