CHAPTER VII.

THE END OF THE HIKE.

While Alec and Blake remained at their post of duty on the rock, exchanging messages with Lieutenant Denmead’s half of the corps—who, as soon as they understood the need, hurried across the meadow, entered the town, and went directly to the only engine house of which Oakvale could boast,—Hugh and Spike hastened back some distance up the hill, to see whence the fire was coming and how far it had already spread. Joe, on his part, decided to set out for the farmhouse to give warning, if it should be necessary. He lingered only to make sure that Alec’s and Blake’s sendings were received and understood by the others in the town.

In the excitement attending the discovery of the fire, when he leaped down from the rock to follow Spike up hill, Hugh lost his little leather-covered tablet or note-book in which he had jotted down memoranda of the march. That is, it fell from his pocket and lay at the base of the rock upon which Alec and Blake stood waving and wig-wagging.

Alec saw it fall, and an expression of mean satisfaction stole over his face. Clambering down from the rock, for a moment, he ground the little note-book into the soft earth with his heel, then took up his position once more.

He did not see Joe watching this act, nor did he count on the halfbreed’s secret preference for Hugh. He only realized that without these notes Hugh would be unable to write a good report of the hike, and would therefore fail to win the leadership of the signal corps.

To their surprise, Hugh and Spike found that the breeze, instead of blowing the fire up hill, as it ordinarily would do, was sending it down the slope from a point about half way from the summit; also, that the fire was spreading in an irregular semi-circle which would sweep over the farm as it advanced. They made strenuous efforts to stamp out the end of the blazing curve by beating it with branches torn from a young sapling, and succeeded in getting a very small part of it under control.

Fortunately, the ground was covered thickly with leaves and leaf-mould, damp after recent rains, and so the tongues of flame rose no higher than the lowest branches of the trees, which they licked greedily and then passed on, seeking whatever they might devour.

Finding their best efforts of little avail, Spike and Hugh hastened to rejoin their companions.

When they came to the rock, they found the others had gone on.

“Probably they’ve gone to the farmhouse,” said Spike. “Come on, Hugh! Which way? Hurry!”

“Look!” Hugh responded, glancing around and pointing to a huge fir tree, upon the trunk of which an arrow was freshly blazed. “There’s one of Joe’s signs. They’ve gone in the direction this arrow points.”

“I wond-wonder—what—sort o’ help the lieutenant and—and his scouts found—found in the vil-village?” panted Spike, as they ran on down hill, plunging through clumps of second-growth pines, now slipping over the smooth brown “needles,” now crashing through masses of trailing vines and tall ferns.

“Nothing but a one-horse engine and-and a bucket brigade, most likely!” Hugh replied, coughing in the smoke that came drifting between the trees.

Presently they emerged from the wood and came out upon the wide clearing in the center of which stood the farmhouse, the big red barn, and a group of smaller buildings. Before them lay a swampy meadow, evidently a hog-pasture, surrounded by a rail fence; on their right extended an orchard whose trees were heavy with green fruit; beyond that, a cornfield glistened in the sunlight; and, still further, acres of waving grain swayed lightly as the breeze passed over them. Strange to say, not an animal nor a human being save themselves was to be seen, and an uncanny silence reigned over the farm.

Hugh vaulted over the rail fence, followed by Spike, and together they began to pick their way as rapidly as possible across the pasture.

“Lucky thing this is swampy,” remarked Hugh, “because the fire won’t be able to crawl over this—ugh!—muck, and get near the barn.”

“No; but don’t forget it is creeping around from that side,” Spike answered gloomily. “There’s where the danger lies.”

“You’re right. But where on earth are the rest of the crowd? Is this place deserted?”

“Looks so, certainly. Hello! There’s someone coming from the house!”

Even as he spoke, an old woman appeared in the doorway and came forth, shading her eyes with one hand and blinking anxiously around her. Catching sight of the two youths as they ran toward her, she called out:

“Fer th’ land’s sake! More o’ yer! Boys, is it true there’s a fire broke out on ther mountain? Two boys an’ a wild-lookin’ man come along here, ’bout half an hour ago, yellin’ like demons from ther pit, and they scart me an’ my ol’ man out o’ our senses!”

“They told the truth, ma’am,” said Spike, with breathless politeness.

“But don’t be alarmed,” Hugh added reassuringly. “It may not be a very dangerous fire, and we’ve sent for help from Oakvale. Are you alone here? I mean, is there anyone who——?”

“Nary a soul but me and Jake,” returned the old woman. “Jake Walsh is my husband; he’s laid up in bed with the rheumatiz,” she added, by way of explanation, “an’ our son Tom’s gone to town with the calves.”

“Are there any cattle in the barn?” inquired Hugh.

“The ol’ bay-mare—but ye can’t call her cattle,” was the answer. “Ther cows is all in that meadow, yonder. But ther barn’s full o’ hay!”

In a flash, both boys thought of the destruction that wind-driven sparks might create, if they should chance to light upon that dry old barn.

“Oh, what’ll I do? What’ll I do?” wailed the poor woman, wringing her hands as she began to realize the seriousness of the situation. “I never dreamed as there’d be any danger o’ fire in the woods this summer, though Tom has often ernough spoke o’ folks’ carelessness a-lightin’ fires an’ leavin’ ’em lay. I can’t leave Jake! I can’t get away from here with him not able ter walk! An’ Tom’s took ther only wagon we have! Oh, what——?”

“We’ll help you, Mrs. Walsh,” declared Hugh. “Besides, the village fire-brigade will be here soon.

“Spike, you’d better climb up that windmill, and see if you can communicate with the village,” he added, and Welling hastened to obey.

“I can see the engine-house,” Spike called down, a few minutes later. “There’s a little tower on it, and someone is up in the tower, waving a flag. It’s Don Miller; I can tell by the way he jerks the flag. He’s sending: ‘We get your message now—fire brigade rushed to farm—close by—do your best.’”

They did their best, too. Long before the little engine-and-hose-cart had reached the outskirts of the farm, they had carried old Jake Walsh on an improvised litter out of the house and some distance away to an abandoned cellar, roofed over with boards and sods. Leaving him there in charge of his wife, they had returned to the farmyard, drawn buckets of water from the well, poured them over the roof and walls of the dwelling, and had begun “policing” the farmyard, watching for sparks, when they were surprised and relieved to hear shouts at a distance.

The shouts seemed to come from the wood. They were accompanied by the thud of many galloping hoofs and a crashing through the thick underbrush.

Presently more than a dozen horsemen dashed into view, brandishing long poles wrapped with wet blankets. They were the advance guard of the fire-fighters, who had galloped to the scene along an old disused logging road through the woods. Without stopping to ask needless questions, these horsemen turned and made off at full speed, spiralling up the hill in single file, shouting and calling as they rode.

“Wish we could follow them!” said Hugh, gazing after the vanishing forms until they disappeared in the shadows of the forest and their shouts became mere echoes. “But I guess we’ll have our work cut out for us here.”

“That’s just what I was thinking,” answered Spike ruefully.

The two youths did not waste much time in unavailing wishes. Every now and then they ran to the outskirts of the farm and penetrated a little way into the wood, to learn, if they could, whether the fire was drawing nearer. Not being thoroughly acquainted with the topography of this particular tract of land, they did not know what obstacles the fire might meet in its path, such as green hollows, cup-like bogs in the depressions of the hills, streams, or even small ponds. All these were possible, for the country for miles and miles around Pioneer Camp was unusually varied.

As it chanced, there was a swiftly flowing brook—which in places widened to the size of a small stream—not far away, on the edge of the pasture where a few cows were stolidly grazing; and this stream was the hope of old Jake Walsh, the one bulwark against the attack of the dreadful enemy. On their tour of the farm, Hugh and Spike discovered this running stream, and they realized its value as a means of defence.

The worst danger, as they knew, was from flying sparks; so they kept a careful watch for these. Two old straw-stacks in the barnyard would go like tinder, if these were once ignited, and Mr. Walsh advised the boys to draw water from the horse-tank under the windmill, climb the stacks, and “souse ’em good an’ plenty.”

“I’d help ye, if I only could!” groaned Jake Walsh, after giving this urgent advice. “But, consarn these old good-fer-nothin’ limbs o’ mine! they ain’t a bit o’ use no more. I might’s well have one foot in ther grave as have my whole livin’ carkiss laid up like this!”

“Come, now; never you mind, Jake,” soothed his wife. “Me an’ ther boys is lively lads, and we’ll take good care o’ them stacks.” This was more easily said than done; nevertheless, with Hugh perched aloft on top of the stack, and with Spike and old Mrs. Walsh forming a bucket-brigade and handing pails of water up to him, the task was somehow accomplished.

In the midst of their labors they paused, hearing the sound of wheels along the road.

“Perhaps that’s your son returning?” suggested Spike.

“No, it ain’t him,” declared Mrs. Walsh, putting her hand to her ear. “Tom took ther heavy farm waggin, and it would make a louder noise than that. Besides, Polly always whinnies when she’s nearin’ home, an’ ther ol’ mare answers her.”

“It’s a horse and buggy,” Hugh announced from his look-out. “There comes another, with three men in it. Hand me one more bucket-full, Spike, old scout. Now! I guess we’ve soused the stack enough.”

He slid down the slippery side of the straw-stack, and the three workers awaited the coming of the first arrivals from the village.

“I’m goin’ back to see how my ol’ man’s gettin’ on; he’s like to be fussin’ an’ frettin’,” said Mrs. Walsh. “If Tom’s come back in thet buggy, leavin’ the waggin ter be fetched later, he’ll know what ter do now.”

So saying, she walked slowly away to the warm, dry cellar where her husband directed the proceedings like a general on a battlefield.

In a few minutes the buggy rattled into the farmyard, and Tom Walsh and his two companions sprang from it to pour a volley of questions and thanks upon the two boys. It was not long before the farmyard became the scene of a motley gathering of Oakvale’s livelier inhabitants, men, women, and children, who drove up in all sorts of vehicles, including automobiles, and brought every conceivable implement for fighting a forest fire. Most of them did not linger there long, but set out for the woods.

Billy Worth arrived on horseback.

“’Twasn’t possible to fetch the hosecart all this way up here,” explained Tom, “but we got everything else we could lay hands on.”

Presently, in a large touring-car owned by a resident of Oakvale, came Lieutenant Denmead, Walter, Arthur, and Cooper, and they brought with them Alec and Blake, whom they had picked up on the way. By unanimous wish, the scouts lost no time in hurrying to the woods after the other fire-fighters, and all did yeoman service in putting out the blaze.

Late in the afternoon the fire was finally extinguished. Fortunately the Walsh farm escaped damage, except for a blaze in a thatched cow-shed, and the farmer and his wife and son were deeply grateful. Mrs. Walsh insisted on serving supper to all who had remained until the danger was over; and when it was generally learned that the prompt arrival of the motley fire brigade was due to the warning given by the young signalers,—for, strange to say, the smoke in the woods had not been considered alarming by the village folk, who were used to camping parties among the hills,—Lieutenant Denmead’s corps were the guests of honor at that “spread.”

And such a feast it was! After all the work and excitement, they were as hungry as wolves, and the simple supper of ham and eggs, crisp fried potatoes, pancakes and honey, washed down with copious glasses of fresh milk, was a banquet fit for the gods! Afterward, they were invited to spend the night in the hayloft of the barn, if they chose; but the Scout Master thought it best to decline this kindly, apologetic invitation and to resume the trip back to camp. Accordingly they took leave of the Walshes, and set forth, with well-filled stomachs and light hearts, glad of another opportunity to camp out in the open that night.

Before noon of the following day they reached Pioneer Camp and were hailed as conquering heroes by their friends.

On the return march, Hugh discovered the loss of his note-book. However, he said nothing to anyone, not even to Billy. The blow was hard to bear, the accident crushing to his hopes of leadership; but he knew he had only himself to blame, and he resolved to accept the mischance with a good grace.