IN THE DEMON’S GRIP
“Whew! The weather is getting hotter and hotter up here!” exclaimed
Stacy, fanning himself with his sombrero as they trotted along.
“Does it always get this way up here?”
“Sometimes,” answered the guide, with a grim smile.
The others of the party who saw the smile understood.
“Hamilton, you don’t mean it is the heat coming from the forest that
we feel, do you?” questioned Miss Dean.
The guide nodded and urged his pony ahead at a more rapid pace. The
others were keeping up a continual chatter, laughing and joking, and
Ham White wondered if they fully realized the peril that was
stalking them. Mr. White did not yet know the young people he was
guiding. Nor did they know him, which fact Elfreda Briggs voiced
when she spoke to Grace on the subject as they were jogging along.
“There is something about Mr. White that I can’t interpret,” she
said.
“And that is?” demanded Grace, regarding her companion with
twinkling eyes.
“That is just it; I don’t know. I do know that Emma has an awful
crush on him, though I am positive that Mr. White doesn’t know it.”
“It is nothing new with Emma, is it?” answered Grace laughingly.
“Let me see, how many men has the dear girl been in love with since
we went to France for war work with our college unit?”
“Oh, I lost the count a long time ago. What is that?”
“Snow. Look at the snow!” shouted Stacy, pointing to a shower of
white flakes that was sifting down over them.
“Oh, it can’t be possible!” wondered Nora Wingate.
“Yes, snow, and the temperature a hundred in the shade,” declared
Stacy. “This is a fine climate. I feel cooler just at sight of those
beautiful white flakes.”
“What is it, Ham?” called Hippy.
“Ashes!” answered the guide. “Ride hard!”
The Overlanders understood now. It was ashes from the forest fire
that was following on their trail, and no further urging was
necessary to keep them going as fast as they could force their
horses. In a short time they were free from the feathery shower and
the air seemed fresher, though they occasionally caught a faint odor
of smoke. The Overlanders felt a certain relief, believing that they
had thrown off their pursuer, but Hamilton White felt no such
assurance. That taint of smoke told him more than the shower of
ashes had told him. It meant that the fire was creeping rather than
blazing high, and he knew that a creeping forest fire was a much to
be dreaded enemy. One never knew when or where to look for it, and
it had an uncanny habit of swooping down on one when least looked
for, and devouring. Ham increased his pace.
No stop had been made in that long ride, except once to let the
sweating ponies drink from a cold mountain stream, and about
mid-afternoon the guide called back that they were nearing Silver
Creek village. The party caught their first glance at the creek,
whose shining surface indicated that it had been well named. It was
silvery, but ere they had followed it long, little waves of
mud-colored water were leaping up.
There had been a severe storm in the mountains within a day, and the
flood was pouring down on its way to the lowlands. It was soon
roaring so loudly that they had to shout to make themselves heard.
Then the village suddenly burst upon them, a settlement of several
hundred people, with stores and a post office that got its mail
twice a week by a post rider.
The party of riders as they entered the village attracted the entire
attention of the inhabitants, who gathered about, and regarded the
newcomers closely.
“Got anything to eat in this burg?” demanded Stacy Brown, slipping
from his saddle and grinning at the villagers.
“Reckon ye can git something at the store,” answered someone.
“Then me for the store!”
Stacy left his pony and ambled into the general store, where Ham
White and Hippy already had gone. White was just greeting the
postmaster, who owned the place, as Stacy entered.
“Forest fire?” jeered the postmaster, in reply to the guide’s
warning. “Never had any such thing at Silver Creek—never expect to.
Creek yonder will stop any forest fire that ever sprung a spark.
Look at it! Listen to it! I reckon you’ve—”
“Stop it!” commanded White sternly. “I demand the help of the
villagers, and if they don’t make haste this town will be wiped out
before they get started.”
Stacy helped himself liberally from the cracker barrel, listening
wide-eyed to the conversation. So long as the crackers held out he
was well satisfied to have the men talk and keep the storekeeper
occupied.
“Who be ye?” demanded the man.
“I am the guide of this party, and—” Ham whispered to the
storekeeper.
“Eh? Oh, well, if that’s the case I reckon we’ve got to go through
the motions of stopping a fire that ain’t. What do ye propose to
do?”
“Call these people together and tell them to get their axes and
begin to fell trees around the village. I will tell them which ones
to cut. Then I want them to help us backfire the grass around the
village; get out every pail and pan in the place. If there are any
barrels here, fill them with water. Cut boughs to whip out the fire
and keep it from getting away from us while we are backfiring. My
party will help. Have you seen any rangers here within a day or so?”
“No. Bud Carver was passing through about a week ago, and he said—”
“Never mind what he said. Get out and tell those people what they
are to do—”
White was interrupted by a growl from the storekeeper, who had
grabbed Stacy by the collar and separated him from the cracker
barrel.
“Here, ye young thief—”
“Don’t you call me a thief!” protested Stacy. “I am paying for what
I get. I’d have paid in advance, but you were busy and I didn’t want
to interrupt you,” explained the fat boy lamely. “Here’s five cents,
and that is more than the whole barrel is worth. I’ll bet you have
had them here ever since Washington stopped being a territory—in
name.”
Uttering a growl, the storekeeper stalked out to the porch and waved
the people to him. Hippy Wingate grasped Stacy by an arm and
propelled him from the store.
“It is fortunate for you, young man, that there was nothing to eat
in the postoffice part of the place, or you would have helped
yourself and got in trouble with the United States Government,”
declared Hippy.
The others of the party had led their ponies up to the porch and
were standing beside them, waiting for orders from the guide, each
one listening attentively while the storekeeper told the villagers
what Hamilton White had directed him to say.
A loud laugh followed the remarks.
“Ain’t goin’ to burn no grass ’round here! That’s stock grass fer
the cows and the hosses next winter,” warned one.
“The grass is going to be burned, and if you don’t do it we shall do
it ourselves. If we fail, the forest fire will do it and take in the
village at the same time,” warned the guide.
“Show me a forest fire and I’ll think about it,” demanded the man.
“You have a nose. Can’t you smell it?” retorted Hippy Wingate.
The villager laughed.
“That smoke is from a bush fire on Bald Mountain where a feller is
clearing a pa’cel of ground fer a cabin,” jeered the villager.
“The breeze doesn’t happen to be blowing from the direction of Bald
Mountain, my man,” reminded White. “It is coming from the opposite
direction. If you will use your brains, provided you have any, you
will find that the air from the south on your face is hotter by
several degrees than it is from the other direction. Get your axes
and the other things that Mr. Skinner has for us.”
Still unconvinced, the man shook his head, and refused.
“Tie your horses, Overlanders! We will backfire ourselves,” called
White.
“Ye’ll get a charge of buckshot in yer carcass if ye do!” threatened
the mountaineer.
“Try it!” suggested Ham White, giving the man a long, steady look in
the eyes. The protesting villager melted away.
At White’s direction, the storekeeper got out all the pails in his
store, which, together with axes and grub-hoes, were cast out on the
porch.
“You ladies must keep back out of the way,” directed Ham.
“We shall do our part, Mr. White,” answered Grace. “Give us
something to do.”
“Very well,” answered the guide after slight hesitation. “You may
fill all these pails with water and distribute them along the edge
of the village on the north side.”
Boughs, green and tough, were quickly cut by White, who then
directed Hippy to start backfiring, which means firing towards the
approaching forest fire, the start of which is always a risk—the
risk of its getting away and burning that which the fire fighters
are seeking to protect. Only a small section at the edge of the
forest was fired at first, Ham White standing guard with Stacy,
ready to leap to the danger point if a blaze should begin creeping
towards the village.
Not a villager lifted a hand to assist, but loud protests were
voiced when the pungent smoke from the burning grass settled over
them.
“You will be in luck if you swallow nothing worse than smoke,” Ham
White flung back at them.
There was something in this lithe, upstanding man of the forest that
held the villagers back from taking matters into their own hands and
driving the intruders from the place. He was everywhere, directing
Hippy where to fire, advising the girls where to pour water,
prodding Stacy Brown to keep that worthy from sitting down and
shirking his share of the labor.
Perspiration was standing out on every face, and every face was red
from the heat of the flames that were rapidly eating their way
towards the big trees in the background. Ham White wanted to fell
those trees, but he could not do it alone, nor would the villagers
do it for him, so he did what could be done, and was glad that he
had such ready workers as the Overland Riders proved themselves to
be. They were resourceful, too, and soon understanding what the
guide was seeking to accomplish, went to it without further
instruction.
“Miss Briggs!” he called, and Elfreda was at his side in a moment.
“What is it, Mr. White?”
“You are a level-headed woman—”
“Thank you,” answered Elfreda smilingly, mopping the perspiration on
her face into sooty streaks.
“I wish you would go around the right-hand side of this burn. The
smoke is blowing towards us now, so you will get little odor from
it. Go into the forest a little way and watch and listen and sniff.
Watch the ground, not the sides. Any indications of fire that you
discover, hear or smell, let me know instantly.”
“Thank you, Mr. White. Carrying water is not particularly inspiring.
I am glad to do something that will occupy me more absorbingly. How
shall I get back here if you fire the right-hand side you just
mentioned?”
“This side will be burned off by then, but don’t stand in one spot
many seconds at a time when crossing it. You might burn your feet.
Be careful that you don’t get lost. I trust you to take care of
yourself.”
For a few brief seconds they held each other’s eyes, then Elfreda
turned and walked briskly away.
“Please, Hamilton, won’t you come back out of danger,” begged Emma,
slipping an arm through his at this juncture. “I am terribly
nervous, but I am demonstrating for you with every fiber of my
being.”
“Go demonstrate on the villagers—do something worth while,” advised
Stacy sourly.
“I will after this is finished—I’ll demonstrate over you,” retorted
Emma.
The guide made no reply, but turned back to his work. Elfreda had
already disappeared from sight. Hers was a responsible post, and
none knew that so well as Hamilton White himself, though Elfreda
began to realize it when she found herself alone in the forest. With
every sense on the alert, Elfreda devoted herself to following Mr.
White’s instructions. She could catch faint whiffs of smoke from the
south, but could see no fire. At first, she thought the odor was
from their own backfire, but after a little she was able to
distinguish a difference in the odor coming from the south. It was
more pungent, more overpowering, seeming to possess more substance,
more body, than did the faint smoke from the grass fire that reached
her nostrils.
“I wonder if I had better run back and report? No. I will stay here
until I have something definite. I may be imagining.”
Elfreda was now so far back in the forest that she could not hear
the crackling of the grass backfire that Ham White had started, and
she could but faintly hear the flow of Silver Creek. Soon a few
scattering “snowflakes” began falling about her, and from the
previous experience she knew what these meant. There was fire to the
south, though it might be many miles away. Elfreda was not
sufficiently familiar with forest fires to interpret these
indications with certainty.
A low, rumbling noise, that might have been distant thunder, caused
her to listen attentively.
“It might have been a train,” she murmured, then instantly recalled
that there was no railway within fifty miles.
A breeze sprang up from the south and the tops of the trees bent
under it ever so little. Then suddenly Elfreda Briggs witnessed a
sight that, for the instant, paralyzed her—that prevented her from
moving a muscle.
What, at first sight, looked to be a shining serpent, was wriggling
toward her, now and then breathing a little spurt of smoke. The
“serpent” disappeared, and she then saw others, all wriggling,
twisting, turning, disappearing, and suddenly appearing in another
spot a few yards away.
“Merciful heaven, what is it?” cried the Overland girl.
A little pine tree, not more than two yards in height, suddenly
became the victim of one of these shining “serpents” and burst into
crackling flames and was consumed in a few minutes.
“Fire!” cried the watcher. Elfreda turned, startled, and fled
towards the “burn” that her companions had made.
They saw her coming on fleet feet. Hamilton White waved to her to
keep to the right, for the grass was still holding fire on the
course she was following, but Elfreda took the gesture for a wave of
welcome, and waved back. In the next second she saw the guide
running towards her, followed by Grace.
Elfreda darted ahead, and was nearly at the edge of the burn when
she came up with them. To her amazement, the guide picked her up,
then threw her flat on the ground. He rolled her over and over in
the blackened ashes of the grass, Grace assisting by vigorous pats,
for Elfreda’s skirt had caught fire.
The blaze was out in a moment, and now the girl began to feel the
sting of burns. Assisted to her feet Elfreda was a sight, her face,
neck and arms black, little patches of white showing here and there,
accentuating the blackness of the rest.
“Quick, take her somewhere and look her over. Get oil from the store
and put on her burns if she has any. Be lively. I—”
“The fiery serpents are there!” gasped Elfreda.
“What!” demanded the guide.
“They’re there, darting all around just beyond the edge of the burn
in the forest. I don’t know—I think—”
“Take her away!” commanded White sternly.
The guide bounded across the burned space and plunged into the
forest. He came back a few moments later, even more rapidly than he
had gone out, never stopping until he reached the store porch.
Something in Hamilton White’s attitude or in his expression silenced
the villagers who had gone into spasms of laughter at Elfreda
Briggs’ plight.
“Men, the forest fire is yonder, less than an eighth of a mile
away!” he shouted. “It may not be too late to save the village, but
I think it is. Get your women and children down to the bank of the
creek. Bring water and wet down everything. Work, you thick-heads!”
There were murmurs of objection. A puff of hot air was driven
through the village, and a few moments later a blue haze settled
over it. A great silence fell over the people. It was broken by a
woman’s scream.
“Fire!” yelled a man.
“Fire! Fire! Fire!”
The chorus was taken up by a hundred voices, and panic seized upon
the inhabitants of Silver Creek.