THE FIRE IN THE FOREST.
"Why, that smoke's coming up from those trees!" declared Nat as they
topped the rise, and saw below them the familiar panorama of undulating
mountain tops, spreading to the sky line in seeming unending billows.
Sure enough, as he said, the smoke was coming from some great
timber-clad slopes directly in front of them.
"May be some more campers," suggested Joe.
"Not likely," said Cal gravely, "no campers would light a fire big
enough to make all that smoke."
Nat did not reply, being too busy applying the brakes as the road
took a sudden steep pitch downward. At the bottom of the dip was a
bridge, made after the fashion of most mountain bridges in those remote
regions. That is to say, two long logs had been felled to span the
abyss the bridge crossed. Then across these string pieces, had been
laid other logs close together. The contrivance seemed hardly wide
enough to allow the auto to cross. Grinding down his brakes Nat brought
the machine to a halt.
"I guess we'd better have a look at that bridge before we try to cross
it," he said, turning to Cal.
"Right you are, boy," assented the ex-stage driver, getting out, "this
gasolene gig is a sight heavier than anything that bridge was ever
built for. Come on, Joe, we'll take a look at it."
Accompanied by the young Motor Ranger the Westerner set off at his
swinging stride down the few paces between the auto and the bridge.
Lying on his stomach at the edge of the brink, he gazed over and
carefully examined the supports of the bridge and the manner in which
they were embedded in the earth on either side.
Then he and Joe jumped up and down on the contrivance and gave it every
test they could.
"I guess it will be all right," said Cal, as he rejoined the party.
"You guess?" said Nat, "say, Cal, if your guess is wrong we're in for a
nasty tumble."
"Wall, then I'm sure," amended the former stage driver, "I've driv'
stage enough to know what a bridge 'ull hold I guess, and that span
yonder will carry this car over in good shape. How about it, Joe?"
"It'll be all right, Nat," Joe assured his chum, "in any case we are
justified in taking a chance, for after what you told us about the
colonel's gang it would be dangerous to go back again."
"That's so," agreed Nat, "now then, all hold tight, for I'm going to go
ahead at a good clip. Hang on to Bismark, Herr Muller."
"I holdt on py him like he voss my long lost brudder," the German
assured him.
Forward plunged the auto, Bismark almost jerking Herr Muller out of
the tonneau as his head rope tightened. The next instant the car was
thundering upon the doubtful bridge. A thrill went through every one of
the party as the instant the entire weight of the heavy vehicle was
placed upon it the flimsy structure gave a distinct sag.
"Let her have it, Nat!" yelled Cal, "or we're gone coons!"
There was a rending, cracking sound, as Nat responded, and the car
leaped forward like a live thing. But as the auto bounded forward to
safety Bismark hung back, shaking his head stubbornly. Herr Muller,
caught by surprise, was jerked half out of the tonneau and was in
imminent peril of being carried over and toppling into the chasm. But
Joe grasped his legs firmly while Cal struck the rope--to which the
Teuton obstinately held--out of his hands.
"Bismark! Come back!" wailed the German as the released horse turned
swiftly on the rickety bridge and galloped madly back in the direction
from which they had come.
But the horse, which was without saddle or bridle, both having been
placed in the car when they started out, paid no attention to his
owner's impassioned cry. Flinging up his heels he soon vanished in a
cloud of dust over the hilltop.
"Turn round der auto. Vee go pack after him," yelled the German.
"Not much we won't," retorted Cal indignantly, "that plug of yours is
headed for his old home. You wouldn't get him across that bridge if you
built a fire under him."
"And I certainly wouldn't try to recross it with this car," said Nat.
"I should say not," put in Joe, "why we could feel the thing give way
as our weight came on it."
"Goodt pye, Bismark, mein faithful lager--charger I mean," wailed Herr
Muller, "I nefer see you again."
"Oh yes, you will," comforted Cal, seeing the German's real distress,
"he'll go right home to the hotel stable that he come frum. You'll see.
The man that owns it is honest as daylight and ef you don't come back
fer the horse he'll send you yer money."
"Put poor Bismark will starfe!" wailed the Teuton.
"Not he," chuckled Cal, "between here and Lariat is all fine grazing
country, and there's lots of water. He'll get back fatter than he came
out."
"Dot is more than I'll do," wailed Herr Muller resignedly as Nat set
the auto in motion once more and they left behind them the weakened
bridge.
"No auto 'ull ever go over that agin," commented Cal, looking back.
"Not unless it has an aeroplane attachment," added Joe.
But their attention now was all centred on the smoke that rose in front
of them. The bridge had lain in a small depression so that they had
not been able to see far beyond it, but as they rolled over the brow
of the hill beyond, the cause of the uprising of the vapor soon became
alarmingly apparent.
A pungent smell was in the air.
"Smells like the punks on Fourth of July," said Joe, as he sniffed.
But joking was far from Cal's mind as he gazed through narrowed eyes.
The smoke which had at first not been much more than a pillar, was now
a vast volume of dark vapor rolling up crowdedly from the forests ahead
of them. Worse still, the wind was sweeping the fire down toward the
track they had to traverse.
"The woods are on fire!" cried Nat as he gazed, and voicing the fear
that now held them all.
As he spoke, from out of the midst of the dark, rolling clouds of
smoke, there shot up a bright, wavering flame. It instantly died down
again, but presently another fiery sword flashed up, in a different
direction, and hung above the dark woods. They could now hear quite
distinctly, too, the sound of heavy, booming falls as big trees
succumbed to the fire and fell with a mighty crash.
"Great Scott, what are we going to do?" gasped Joe.
"T-t-t-t-turn b-b-b-back!" said Ding-dong as if that settled the matter.
"Py all means," chimed in Herr Muller, gazing ahead at the
awe-inspiring spectacle.
"How are you going to do that when that bridge won't hold us?" asked
Nat. "Do you think we can beat the fire to the trail, Cal?"
"We've gotter," was the brief, but comprehensive rejoinder.
"But if we don't?" wailed Ding-dong.
"Ef you can't find nothing ter say but that, jus' shut yer mouth,"
warned Cal in a sharp tone.
His face was drawn and anxious. He was too old a mountaineer not to
realize to a far greater extent than the boys the nature of the peril
that environed them. His acute mind had already weighed the situation
in all its bearings. In no quarter could he find a trace of hope,
except in going right onward and trusting to their speed to beat the
flames.
True, they might have turned back and waited by the bridge, but the
woods grew right up to the trail, and it would be only a matter of time
in all probability before the flames reached there. In that case the
Motor Rangers would have been in almost as grave a peril as they would
by going on. The fire was nearly two miles from where they were, but
Cal knew full well the almost incredible rapidity with which these
conflagrations leap from tree to tree, bridging trails, roads, and even
broad rivers. It has been said that the man or boy who starts a forest
fire is an enemy to his race, and truly to any one that has witnessed
the awful speed with which these fires devour timber and threaten big
ranges of country, the observation must ever seem a just one.
"Can't we turn off and outflank the flames?" asked Joe, as they sped on
at as fast a pace as Nat dared to urge the car over the rough trail.
Cal's answer was a wave of his hand to the thickset trees on either
side. Even had it not been for the danger of fire reaching them before
they could outflank it, the trunks were too close together to permit of
any vehicle threading its way amidst them.
There was but little conversation in the car as it roared on, leaping
and careering over rocks and obstructions like a small boat in a heavy
sea. The Motor Rangers were engaged in the most desperate race of their
lives. As they sped along the eyes of all were glued on the trail
ahead, with its towering walls of mighty pines and about whose bases
chaparral and inflammable brush grew closely.
The air was perceptibly warmer now, and once or twice a spark was blown
into the car. Not the least awe-inspiring feature of a forest fire in
the mountains is the mighty booming of the great trunks as they fall.
It is as impressive as a funeral march.
"Ouch, somebody burned my hand!" exclaimed Joe suddenly.
But gazing down he saw that a big ember had lit on the back of it. He
glanced up and noticed that the air above them was now full of the
driving fire-brands. Overhead the dun-colored smoke was racing by like
a succession of tempest-driven storm clouds. A sinister gloom was in
the air.
Suddenly, Cal, who had been half standing, gazing intently ahead, gave
a loud shout and pointed in front of them. The others as they gazed
echoed his cry of alarm.