The Crisis
The forester hastened down the highway at a A tremendous pace. Charley set
out along the forest road he had so recently built. Before he knew it, he
was running madly. He ran for a long distance, hardly conscious that he
was running. Presently he stopped from very fatigue. Then he realized that
he was greatly excited and that he was running from sheer nervousness.
"This won't do at all," he muttered to himself. "You're worse than an old
hen. If ever you needed to keep your head, it's right now."
He took a grip on himself, drew a long breath, and settled to a fast walk,
thinking hard. He could not see how he himself could accomplish the arrest
of Lumley. If his chief did not think it advisable to attempt it, he was
very certain that he ought not to try it himself. And he was glad at the
thought. For he could not help but recall the wicked gleam in Lumley's
eyes, the man's savage outburst of temper, and his vicious talk. He
understood well enough that Lumley would not submit to arrest without a
struggle.
Then the thought came to him that he had no business trying to arrest
Lumley, even if he could do it. The chief was attending to that and the
chief knew best what to do under the circumstances. Also, the chief had
given him his orders. His business was to obey orders. And those orders
were to take care of the forest.
Fresh alarm seized him. Why had the forester given him those orders? Was
there danger of any one's setting fire to the forest? At the thought
Charley was almost in a panic again. A passionate love for the great woods
he was guarding had sprung up in Charley's heart. He held come to dread
fire with a dread unspeakable. He had come to regard it with a feeling of
absolute terror. In this feeling there was nothing of physical fear. A
little blaze in the forest made him so wild with anger that nowadays he
would fight it recklessly. His fear was the dread lest the immemorial
trees he was guarding should be wasted and the forest destroyed. It was
apprehension for the forest, not for himself, that troubled Charley.
Rapidly he passed along the road, now jogging to relieve the nervous
tension, now proceeding at a fast walk. He came to the slope of the
mountain but his pace was no whit slower. At last, panting and almost
exhausted from his terrific efforts, he reached the crest. He staggered to
the ladder and climbed painfully to the watch-tower. Steadying himself, he
swept the horizon in every direction. The forest seemed to slumber. No
smoke arose, no winds swayed the tree tops. The twilight peace enfolded
everything. Satisfied that all was safe, Charley sank down on his bunk and
lay there until he was rested. Then he climbed down to his cabin and
cooked supper.
Never since he had been alone in the forest had Charley so much felt the
need of companionship as he did now. He lighted a little fire in his
hearth and the cheery snapping of the burning sticks comforted him. He sat
down at his wireless and talked with Mr. Morton. The latter could not tell
him much about the situation. The forester had telephoned from his place
for the police and the latter had started at once for the forest. That was
all Mr. Morton knew. Charley called up Lew and told him as much of the
situation as he thought wise, and got the news from Central City. When he
threw over his switch and turned away from his wireless table, he felt
somewhat comforted. But the feeling of dread and apprehension had not
altogether left him.
For some time he read, or tried to read. Study he could not. At last he
went to the telephone and called Mr. Marlin. He reported that all was well
in the forest. He was burning to ask his chief all about the situation,
yet hardly dared. He might say something that the chief would rather have
unsaid; for always there was the possibility of listeners in on the
telephone. And Lumley's family could listen in as readily as any others.
Doubtless Mr. Marlin appreciated Charley's self-restraint. Before he said
good-night, he remarked casually to Charley, "I may want you to do some
work at the lumber camp to-morrow. I tried to find Lumley there late this
afternoon to give him some orders, but he had gone away. I have asked his
wife to have him call me the moment he comes home. Don't forget my final
instructions to you this afternoon. Good-night."
To an outsider the message would mean nothing, as Mr. Marlin intended it
should. But to Charley it told the whole story. Lumley had fled before the
arrival of the forester and the state police.
Charley reviewed the forester's words to him, as they talked at the log
piles. "He's a bad egg. I really believe he wouldn't hesitate to commit
murder if he were cornered. You want to watch him. We'll have to be mighty
careful how we handle this business.... You hustle back to your tower and
keep a close watch on things."
Again a feeling of apprehension came to Charley, and this time there was
something of personal fear about it. Again Charley recalled the fugitive
ranger's violence of temper, and his evident jealousy of the chief. And as
Charley considered the matter now, he saw that Lumley must have been even
more jealous of him, Charley, than he was of the chief. Now he understood
all the prying efforts Lumley had made to learn the size of his pay. Quite
evidently Lumley could not endure to see another man get ahead. Charley
felt sure that it would not be safe for him to meet Lumley. He resolved
to be on his guard every second. Then he sighed with relief at the thought
that Lumley had fled.
But a moment later his face became very grave. "How do I know that Lumley
has fled?" he asked himself. "To go any distance, he would have to walk
along a highway, or ride in a motor-car, or board a train; and in any case
he might be seen and traced. On the other hand, Lumley knows the forest
like a book. He has lived in it for years. Where else could he so well
hope to elude pursuit?" Charley felt certain that Lumley must be somewhere
in the forest.
Immediately he got his rifle, filled the magazine, and stood it within
reach. He tried to read, but was too nervous. Then he thought of the open
windows and his light within the cabin. Any one could see through the
windows--or shoot through them. Charley put his flash-light in his pocket
and blew out his lamp. The evening was warm, and Charley opened the door
and sat down on the sill, leaning against the jamb of the door, and
cradling his rifle across his knees.
Soon his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. From where he sat,
Charley could look out over what seemed like infinite stretches of forest.
The moon had not yet risen, and the valleys below him were vast depths of
darkness. Mist floated above, partly obscuring the stars. A gentle breeze
was blowing up here on the mountain top, but Charley knew that down in the
valleys the air was like stagnant water. The whispering of the trees
around him was like the quiet breathing of a babe asleep, and the
occasional sounds of the forest creatures were no more disturbing than the
gentle murmurs of a dreaming child. Peace enfolded the forest. It seemed
to Charley as though that great, invisible, beneficent Spirit we call God
had cradled the forest in His arms as a mother cradles her little ones.
The thought comforted him. Something of the peace about him crept into his
own heart. He drew a long sigh and sat back.
After a time he began to feel drowsy. He took his blanket and his rifle,
and, closing his cabin door, climbed to the fire-tower. He closed and
bolted the trap-door in the floor of the tower. For some time he sat on
the edge of his bunk, watching the forest. Behind the eastern mountains
the sky began to glow. The moon was coming up. In another hour or two,
Charley knew, the forest would be flooded with silvery light. He loved the
moonlight on the pines, but he was becoming too sleepy to stay awake to
see it. The moment the moon's first rays shot over the eastern hilltops,
Charley lay back in his bunk, stood his rifle within reach, drew the
blankets about him, and was almost instantly asleep.
Yet he slumbered uneasily. Terrible dreams disturbed him. Once or twice he
awoke and started up in alarm. Once the slender tower seemed to vibrate as
though some one were mounting the ladder. But Charley dismissed the idea
as idle fancy, for the nocturnal stillness was unbroken. So, fitfully,
Charley slept through the night.
Dawn found him afoot. Eagerly he scanned the horizon. Banks of mist lay
over the valleys, concealing much of the forest. Slowly Charley examined
the horizon, half fearful, half relieved. From the two sides of his tower
he could see nothing disturbing. But when he turned to the third side his
heart stood still. Unmistakable in the whitish mist, darker clouds were
rising upward. The forest was afire.
Intently Charley studied the smoke pillar, trying to locate it exactly and
to estimate the extent of the blaze. Satisfied, he swept his glance
farther along the horizon, but stopped abruptly. A second spiral of smoke
was stealing upward through the mist. Before he had completed his survey,
Charley discovered four more smoke columns. Somebody had fired the forest
in half a dozen different places.
Whoever had done it must have known the forest intimately. The blazes had
been kindled just where they would do the most damage.
Charley's mind worked like lightning. Even as he examined and located the
smoke columns, he was planning how best to extinguish the fires. It was
still very early. The wind would not rise for hours yet. Even then the
dense timber would break its force. Meanwhile the fire would spread but
slowly. If only he could get his men to the spot in time, Charley felt
sure he could put out every blaze with but slight damage done. By the
time he reached for the telephone, he had his plan of campaign mapped out.
Morton's big crew would be assembling in a short time. The forester might
be able to hasten their assembling and to collect more men. With trucks he
could rush the gang clear to the foot of the mountain, where the broken
army truck lay. An excellent fire trail would take some of them afoot
direct to the first blazes. Other groups could strike through the passes
for the other fires. With the chief and Mr. Morton and himself to head
three of the crews, and experienced fire fighters to lead the other
groups, Charley felt sure that they would hold the fires.
Sharply Charley whirled the bell handle and put the receiver to his ear.
There was no response. Impatiently he rang again. Still he got no reply. A
feeling of alarm took possession of him. Frantically he rang and rang, but
the receiver at his ear was mute. The wire was cut.
"Thank God for the wireless!" cried Charley, snatching up the trap-door
and descending the ladder recklessly. "There aren't any wires about that
to be cut."
Involuntarily he glanced toward his aerial. Then he stopped dead. His
aerial had disappeared. Now he knew why the tower had vibrated during the
night. Somebody <i>had</i> been on the ladder. If only he had gotten up to
investigate! But it was too late now for regrets. He must act. He must get
up another aerial. An idea came to him and he shouted for joy. He would
use the tower itself as an aerial.
He raced to the cabin and flung open the door. A single glance showed him
his cupboard had been rifled of its food supplies. He leaped toward his
operating-table and stopped aghast. His face turned pale, his hands fell
helplessly to his sides, and he stood looking at the instruments before
him, the picture of despair. A heavy file lay across the terminals of his
battery, and the battery was useless.
Unnerved, Charley sank down on a chair. He covered his face with his
hands. It would take him hours to reach the Morton home on foot. And it
might be hours more before the forester could be notified. It looked as
though the forest were doomed.
Fairly shaking himself, as a terrier shakes a rat, Charley freed himself
of the fear that clutched at his heart and forced himself to think. Calmly
he began to consider what he could do. He thought of the dry cells he had
first used. They were still wired together and in the cabin. Like a flash
Charley coupled them to his instrument, but the cells were exhausted. He
could get no spark from them.
Again he sat down and thought. Suddenly he leaped to his feet. "The army
truck!" he cried. "If he overlooked that, I'll beat him yet."
He began to assemble tools and instruments. But when he looked for wire to
fashion an aerial, his face grew black. The intruder had taken both
aerial and lead-in wire, and Charley hadn't a hundred feet of wire left in
the place. What should he do? What could he do?
Again he paused and pondered. And again an idea came to him. "They use
trees for aerials," he muttered, "and they make perfect ones to receive
by. I don't know whether one could send from them or not. But it's my last
chance. I'll try it."
He gathered together his tools and instruments, including the creepers he
had used in putting up the telephone-line, carefully stowed them all in a
big basket and started down the mountain. A hundred yards from the door he
turned about and ran back. When he came out of the cabin again, his rifle
was tucked under his arm. Then he went down the mountain as fast as he
could travel.
Fearfully he studied the truck as he drew near. It was untouched. With a
cry of joy, Charley tore open the battery box. In no time he had some
wires fast to the battery. He spread out his instruments and coupled
everything carefully together. The outfit lacked only an aerial.
Buckling on his creepers, and stuffing some spikes and a hammer in his
pocket, Charley rapidly mounted a tall tree that stood close beside the
truck. As luck would have it, the tree stood all by itself, its nearest
neighbors having been cut in making the road. Two-thirds of the way up the
tree, Charley drove a spike deep into the wood. He sank a second spike
not far from the first. Then he drove home a third. The lead-in wire
dangled behind him at his belt. He unfastened it and twisted it tight to
the spikes, wrapping it close about one after the other. Then he climbed
down and made sure his wire did not touch the earth. Trembling with
eagerness, he sat down at his key.
One moment he paused, drawing out his watch. With a cry of joy, he put his
finger on the key. It was almost the hour at which he was accustomed to
exchange morning greetings with Mr. Morton. He pressed his key and a sharp
flash resulted. Joyously he adjusted his spark-gap until he had a fine,
fat stream of fire leaping between the posts. Then he fairly held his
breath as he rapped out the ranger's call signal.
"JVM--JVM--JVM--CBC," he called and listened. There was no response. Again
he called. And again there was no response. His face became pale. His
fingers began to tremble.
"JVM--JVM--JVM--CBC," he rapped out frantically, sending the call again
and again. Then he sat back to listen. Suddenly his receivers buzzed. With
startling distinctness came the answer.
"CBC--CBC--CBC--I--I--I. Your signals very weak."
So the ranger could hear, Charley did not care how weak the signals were.
"Forest afire in six places," he flashed back. "Wires cut. Wireless
broken. Talking over temporary outfit. Notify forester. Collect all men
possible. Come immediately in trucks to end of new road. Can get to fires
on foot from here easily."
"Where are fires?" replied Mr. Morton.
"South and west of fire-tower. In valleys both sides of fire-tower
mountain."
"How far away?"
"About two miles--maybe three."
"How big are they?"
"Still small. Can put out before wind rises. Must have help quick."
There was a long pause. Then came this message, "Have sent neighbor with
his automobile to notify forester. Will rush crew. Hold fire best you can.
Good-bye."
With a cry of relief that came from his very soul, Charley threw over his
switch and leaped to his feet. He seized his rifle, then stood a second,
hesitating.
"No," he said decisively, "the man who set those fires won't wait around
to be seen, even if he is a desperate man."
He slipped his rifle under a clump of bushes and buckled on his little
axe. Then he started down the fire trail at a fast pace. Now running, now
walking, advancing as fast as he could without exhausting himself, Charley
hastened toward the fire. Long before he reached the nearest blaze,
Charley smelled smoke. As he drew near the fire, he studied it as best he
could. He rejoiced that it was so small. The mist bank and the heavy fall
of dew had so moistened things that the fire crept but slowly.
Charley cut a pine branch and fell upon the flames ferociously. A great
anger surged up in his heart, like the fierce passion that takes
possession of a bull when he sees red. It lent power and determination to
him. Yet Charley tried to conserve his strength. Yard after yard he beat
out the flames, thankful that he had to face only a little creeping fire.
Small as it was, the blaze was, nevertheless, hot and stifling.
Rod after rod Charley fought his way around the ring of fire, never
pausing for a single instant to rest. By the time he had completed the
circle and the blaze was out, Charley was beginning to tire badly. He
doubted if he could beat out the six fires alone. If they grew any larger,
he knew he could not. And larger they were becoming, for the first faint
puffs of the morning breeze were beginning to stir the tree tops.
Half a mile through the trees Charley smashed his way to the next ring of
fire. He could see that the flames were leaping a little higher and that
they were eating their way along at a faster pace than the first fire had
traveled. He knew it would be hard to stop this blaze. But he cut a new
bough, and gritting his teeth, once more fell to fighting fire.
Quickly he found it was quite a different fire from the one he had
extinguished. Fitfully the wind was coming up. When it blew, the flames
seemed to leap at Charley. His shoes, his clothes, his hands and wrists
were blistered by the heat. His fingers were torn and his muscles ached.
His lungs and throat became painful. His eyes grew blurred. He could no
longer see clearly. There was a ringing noise in his ears. Yet coughing,
choking, gasping for breath, stumbling and tripping, and at times falling
prone, he fought his way along the line of fire.
He was so weak, so worn out from physical exertion and nervous strain that
he could no longer think clearly. But blindly, stubbornly, doggedly, he
fought the flames. His movements became mechanical. Sometimes his
descending bough hit the fire and sometimes it struck the unignited
leaves. Charley was fast nearing the point of exhaustion. He could
scarcely control his movements. Yet he tried valiantly to hold himself to
his task. He thought of the turtle-dove on the burning stump and for a
moment the thought seemed to give him new strength. But the inspiration
was only momentary. Blindly now he staggered along the line of fire,
gasping, reeling, swaying, hardly able to keep his feet. He tottered on.
He could hardly raise his brush. His efforts were useless. Yet he hung
doggedly to his duty. Just as he was about to plunge headlong into the
flames, a shout sounded in his ears, forms came rushing through the smoke,
and Charley was lifted in the forester's strong arms and borne to one
side.