Chapter Eight

THE LINE GOES DEAD

Lights in the interior of the bus were out now for Curt didn't dare run the risk that they might interfere with his vision. The heavy vehicle swayed from side to side as they bounced over the winding road and Janet and Helen clung to each other for protection.

Smoke was swirling across the road and the acrid fumes swept through the open windows of the bus, but there was no time now to close them.

They raced out of the valley they had been in, shot up over a slight rise, and descended into another valley, the glare of the flames being lost to view for the time.

"Think we'll make it?" gasped Helen, clinging tightly to Janet's right arm.

"We've got to," replied Janet. "The last shots for the picture are in the bus."

"I'm not worrying about the picture; it's us," retorted Helen. "My eyes hurt; so do my feet."

Janet couldn't help smiling for Helen was very much matter of fact.

There was a sharp report under the bus, like a gunshot or the backfire of the exhaust. But it was neither and the girls were thrown heavily against the side of the bus as the left rear tire let go.

The heavy machine swayed dangerously with Curt fighting for control. The brakes screamed as they ground to a stop and Curt leaped out to survey the damage. The driver followed him and then Billy Fenstow followed.

The driver turned on his flashlight and Janet could hear Curt's muttered exclamation of disgust.

"We can change; we've got a spare," the driver said.

"We've got to and we'll have to work fast," snapped Curt.

Under the lashing directions of the cowboy star, other members of the company turned to and lent a hand. Tools were taken out, a big jack was placed under the rear axle, and the work started.

From somewhere behind came the ominous roar of the fire and the sky behind the ridge they had just topped crimsoned. Helen, her thin oxfords badly cut, shifted miserably from one foot to another and longed for a hot bath in which to soak her aching feet.

While Curt and several assistants wrestled with the task of getting the flat tire off, the driver managed to get the spare wheel down from its rack at the rear.

"Not much air in it," he grumbled.

"There never is," snapped Curt, "but you know how to use a pump."

Billy Fenstow seized the pump, fastened the hose to the valve on the tire, and bent his tired body to the task of increasing the air pressure in the big tire.

It was a tedious, wracking job, and the men alternated, working at top speed for a minute, then giving way to another fresher one.

Curt, scanning the horizon above the ridge, urged them to greater haste.

"Fire's getting close," he warned. "We've got to get under way."

Billy Fenstow unfastened the pump and Curt seized the big steel wheel with its huge casing. Other willing hands helped him get it on the axle. Anxious fingers sped the bolts into place and they tightened them as rapidly as possible.

"Get going!" Curt yelled at the driver.

"How about the jack?"

"Never mind that. Throw her in gear and she'll come off. That fire's coming fast now."

As though in answer to Curt's warning, the flames shot over the top of the nearest ridge and started down. They seemed to be racing now with the speed of a greyhound, leaping from thicket to thicket with unbelievable rapidity.

Janet and Helen, clinging together on the back seat, watched it with fascinated eyes. The fire was a living, advancing thing that might surround and swallow them in its flaming greed. The thought sent a deadening chill through Janet and for a moment she closed her eyes to the red spectacle.

The motor of the bus roared again as Curt trod heavily on the starter. The big vehicle pulsated with power and there was the crash of gears as they lurched ahead and the left rear wheel dropped off the jack.

Like a frightened elephant the bus leaped forward, its headlights once more boring through the smoke-laden night air.

Curt drove with reckless abandon, tramping the accelerator down almost to the floor boards. His passengers were flung from one side of the lunging vehicle to another, but they knew that only in speed now lay their hope for salvation and none of them cried out as their bruised bodies were flung back and forth.

Janet and Helen managed to wedge themselves in a corner where, by clinging together, they could escape with only a minimum of bouncing about.

Suddenly the road straightened out and the smoke thinned. Janet recognized where they were. It was the last half mile which led back to the ranch where they had completed shooting the new picture only that afternoon.

They had outdistanced the racing flames and Curt reduced the wild speed of the bus. In less than five minutes they swung into the broad yard of the ranch, but there were no lights in the house nor in the bunkhouse.

Curt blasted sharply on the horn, but there was no sign or sound of life anywhere.

"Looks like everyone's sound asleep," said Billy Fenstow, who was rubbing his bruises gingerly.

"They've probably taken to the hills," replied Curt.

They unloaded and entered the ranchhouse. Curt lighted a lamp and it was evident from the disorder in the rooms that the owners had fled hastily. The corrals were open and all of the stock had been turned loose.

Janet and Helen stopped beside the water tank. Their throats were dry and tasted heavily of smoke so they drank deeply of the cool, fresh water.

Curt, pausing for a moment, stuck his whole head in the tank, and then drank from the cup the girls offered him. As he gulped down the water he watched the crimson horizon northwest of the ranch.

"Looks like we're going to be safe here unless the wind swings around a little more," he observed.

"I'm worried about the folks. They know what time we were going to start back and they'll be frantic when they hear about the fire," said Helen.

"Phone line may still be up," said Curt. "Go in the house and see if you can get a call through."

Helen turned and hastened toward the house while Curt rejoined the men, who were staying near the bus. The driver was buried under the hood again, making sure that there would be no recurrence of their previous engine trouble.

Janet followed Helen into the ranchhouse. The phone, an old-fashioned wall instrument, was in the dining room. There was a large plate of cookies, evidently left from supper, on the table, and neither girl could resist helping herself to several. Helen munched them as she cranked the telephone and listened for an answer from the operator in the nearest town. At last the response came.

Helen, talking rapidly, gave her father's address and phone number in Hollywood. In less than five minutes the call was through and she heard her father's voice on the other end of the wire.

"Hello, Dad. This is Helen."

"Where are we? Back at the ranch. No, we're safe enough. The bus broke down and we had to turn back when the fire cut us off.

"Now don't worry, Dad. Curt Newsom says he thinks the fire will swing around us. If it doesn't, we can take to the hills back of the ranch. We'll come through all right. Tell Mother not to worry.

"What's that----?"

Helen repeated the question, then looked blankly at Janet.

"See if you can hear him," she urged and Janet took the receiver.

"Hello, Mr. Thorne," she said. But there was no answer. She repeated the question and this time when there was no answer mechanically hung up the receiver.

"The line's dead," she told Helen. "The fire must have brought down the poles."

The girls stared hard at each other through smoke-rimmed eyes. The telephone had given them a sense of security, a feeling of contact with the outside world. Now they were cut off with the flames behind them and only the rugged hills ahead.