“What do you intend doing with that paper,” Rip asked Westy on their way
to Lola’s the next day; “steal it?”
“Of course not! Does a scout steal?”
“No--not a real one!”
“Well, then, what made you ask me a thing like that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. On the level though, Wes, what have you up your
sleeve?”
“My arm.”
“Yes, I know, but what else?”
“Little boys shouldn’t ask questions.”
“Aw, I won’t tell,” he pleaded.
“All right--if you want to know, I’m just going to pay the Mitchells a
nice friendly call when we get in Santa Fe, that’s all!”
“I see,” said Rip. “You’re too deep for me.”
They returned from the Redmond cottage early in the evening. Walking
back by way of the brook, each one seemed listening to all the familiar
sounds for the last time.
Lola had insisted upon them staying longer, but they had much packing to
do in order to leave early enough in the morning.
“We’ll miss this little old bunch of chatter,” Billy remarked about the
brook.
“We’ll miss it all,” Mr. Wilde said, “except when it rains.”
“What’d you think of Old Scout to-day, Westy?” Mr. Wilde inquired.
“I liked him fine, but he didn’t stay long enough for me to get
acquainted with him. Didn’t care much about the would-be’s, though.”
“No, who could? They seemed even to be dissatisfied with themselves!”
“Yes,” Westy said, “I heard them quarreling. I stepped on three lighted
cigarettes while they were there. There’d be no forests at all if the
would-be’s came here very often.”
“There’s logic in that,” Rip replied.
“You sound like Pee-wee Harris,” Westy said.
Two hours later Westy awakened in the dark cabin. The breathing of the
rest sounded mechanical as he listened. He could hear the brook so plain
in the silence. It was tireless, he thought, day and night flowing on
and on, summer and winter. It made him feel tired to think of it.
Something pungent seemed to strike his nostrils like that of burning
wood.
“Now, what could that be, I wonder?” he mused. “Must be some embers in
the fireplace.”
He got out of his bunk and tip-toed to the fireplace. It was stone cold.
He went to the door and opened it softly. The acrid odor was not to be
mistaken. He went in and got his clothes on.
A few minutes later as Westy sprinted along the trail he saw the dark
heavens ahead of him outlined in a dull red glow, and through the trees
he could distinguish little red sparks shooting into the air.
The wind was blowing southwest--straight in the direction of the
cottage! He ran on. With each few steps he could see the glow in the sky
getting brighter and gradually the sparks lengthened into flames and the
flames lengthened into shafts of red fire, leaping into the air like
whirling dervishes.
Westy fairly leaped ahead, too, wondering if Lola and her grandmother
were aware of it. He hadn’t any time to go back and arouse the rest--he
had to go on! They must need help or they _would_ be needing it very
soon.
At last he struck the trail down to the cottage, but stopped as he
viewed the strange freak of fate before him.
The fire was confined to only one side of the trail and the side nearest
the ravine. That, of course, was fortunate, because it would go no
further in that direction.
But a sprightly breeze was blowing southwest, and as it blew through the
flaming area it sounded like the light treading of many phantom feet.
And it was sweeping--how far had it gone? He rushed forward and all
along the way the fire was still ahead of him to the right.
Westy’s throat was beginning to feel as scorched as the ground looked
where the fire had passed on. His eyes were stinging, but he didn’t
care, for looking up suddenly, he saw that the fire was now on the very
edge of the Redmond clearing.
His ears were pounding against his head from running and the roar of the
burning trees was deafening, but above it all he heard a girl’s cry.