Transley’s men had repaired such machines as they could and returned to
work. The clatter of mowing machines filled the valley; the horses were
speeded up to recover lost time. Transley and Y.D. rode about, carefully
scrutinizing the short grass for iron stakes, and keeping a general eye
on operations.
Suddenly Transley sat bolt-still on his horse. Then, in a low voice,
“Y.D!” he said.
The rancher turned and followed the line of Transley’s vision. The
nearest of Landson’s stacks was ablaze, and a great pillar of smoke was
rolling skyward. Even as they watched, the base of the fire seemed to
spread; then, in a moment, tongues of flame were seen leaping from a
stack farther on.
“Looks like your prayers were answered, Y.D.,” said Transley. “I bet
they haven’t a plow nearer than the ranch.”
Y.D. seemed fascinated by the sight. He could not take his eyes off
it. He drew a cigar from his pocket and thrust it far into his mouth,
chewing it savagely and rolling it in his lips, but, according to the
law of the hayfield, refraining from lighting it. At first there was a
gleam of vengeance in his eyes, but presently that gave way to a sort of
horror. Every honorable tradition of the range demanded that he enlist
his force against the common enemy.
“Hell, Transley!” he ejaculated, “we can’t sit and look at that! Order
the men out! What have we got to fight with?”
For answer Transley swung round in his saddle and struck his palm into
Y.D.’s.
“Good boy, Y.D!” he said. “I did you an injustice--I mean, about your
prayers being answered. We haven’t as much as a plow, either, but we can
gallop down with some barrels in a wagon and put a sack brigade to
work. I’m afraid it won’t save Landson’s hay, but it will show where our
hearts are.”
Transley and Y.D. galloped off to round up the men, some of whom had
already noticed the fire. Transley despatched four men and two teams
to take barrels, sacks, and horse blankets to the Landson meadows. The
others he sent off at once on horseback to give what help they could.
Zen rode up just as they left, and already her fine horse seemed to
realize the tension in the air. His keen, hard-strung muscles quivered
as she brought his gallop to a stop.
“How did it start, Dad?” she demanded.
“How do I know?” he returned, shortly. “D’ye think I fired it?”
“No, but I just asked the question that Landson will ask, so you better
have your answer handy. I’m going to gallop down to their ranch; perhaps
I can help Mrs. Landson.”
“The ranch buildings are safe enough, I think,” said Transley. “The
grass there is close cropped, and there is some plowing.”
For a moment the three sat, watching the spread of the flames. By this
time the whole lower valley was blanketed in smoke. Clouds of blue and
mauve and creamy yellow rolled from the meadows and stacks. The fire was
whipping the light breeze of the afternoon to a gale, and was already
running wildly over the flanks of the foothills.
“Well, I’m off,” said Zen. “Good-bye!”
“Be careful, Zen!” her father shouted. “Fire is fire.” But already her
horse was stretching low and straight in a hard gallop down the valley.
“I’ll ride in to camp and tell Tompkins to make up a double supply of
sandwiches and coffee,” said Transley. “I guess there’ll be no cooking
in Landson’s outfit this afternoon. After that we can both run down and
lend a hand, if that suits you.”
As they rode to camp together Y.D. drew up close to the contractor.
“Transley,” he said, “how do you reckon that fire started?”
“I don’t know,” said Transley, “any more than you do.”
“I didn’t ask you what you KNEW. I asked you what you reckoned.”
Transley rode for some minutes in silence. Then at last he spoke:
“A man isn’t supposed to reckon in things of this kind. He should know,
or keep his mouth shut. But I allow myself just one guess. Drazk.”
“Why Drazk?” Y.D. demanded. “He has nothin’ to gain, and this prank may
put him in the cooler.”
“Drazk would do anything to be spectacular,” Transley explained. “He
probably will boast openly about it. You know, he’s trying to make an
impression on Zen.”
“Nonsense!”
“Of course it’s nonsense, but Drazk doesn’t see it that way.”
“I’d string him to the nearest cottonwood if I thought he--”
“Now don’t do him an injustice, Y.D. Drazk doesn’t realize that he is
no mate for Zen. He doesn’t know of any reason why Zen shouldn’t look on
him with favor; indeed, with pride. It’s ridiculous, I know, but Drazk
is built that way.”
“Then I’ll change his style of architecture the first time I run into
him,” said Y.D. savagely. “Zen is too young to think of such a thing,
anyway.”
“She will always be too young to think of such a thing, so far as Drazk
or his type is concerned,” Transley returned. “But suppose--Y.D., to be
quite frank, suppose _I_ suggested--”
“Transley, you work quick,” said Y.D. “I admit I like a quick worker.
But just now we have a fire on our hands.”
By this time they had reached the camp. Transley gave his instructions
in a few words, and then turned to ride down to Landson’s. They had gone
only a few hundred yards when Y.D. pulled his horse to a stop.
“Transley!” he exclaimed, and his voice was shaking. “What do you
smell?”
The contractor drew up and sniffed the air. When he turned to Y.D. his
face was white.
“Smoke, Y.D!” he gasped. “The wind has changed!”
It was true. Already low clouds of smoke were drifting overhead like a
broken veil. The erratic foothill wind, which a few minutes before had
been coming down the valley, was now blowing back up again. Even while
they took in the situation they could feel the hot breath of the distant
fire borne against their faces.
“Well, it’s up to us,” said Transley tersely. “We’ll make a fight of it.
Got any speed in that nag of yours?” Without waiting for an answer he
put spurs to his horse and set forward on a wild gallop into the smoke.
A mile down the line he found that Linder had already gathered his
forces and laid out a plan of defence. The valley, from the South Y.D.
to the hills, was about four miles wide, and up the full breadth of
it was now coming the fire from Landson’s fields. There was no natural
fighting line; Linder had not so much as a buffalo path to work against.
But he was already starting back-fires at intervals of fifty yards,
allotting three men to each fire. A back-fire is a fire started for the
purpose of stopping another. Usually a road, or a plowed strip, or even
a cattle path, is used for a base. On the windward side of this base the
back-fire is started and allowed to eat its way back against the wind
until it meets the main fire which is rushing forward with the wind, and
chokes it out for lack of fuel. A few men, stationed along a furrow or a
trail, can keep the small back-fire from jumping it, although they would
be powerless to check the momentum of the main fire.
This was Linder’s position, except that he had no furrow to work
against. All he could do was tell off men with sacks and horse blankets
soaked in the barrels of water to hold the back-fire in check as best
they could. So far they were succeeding. As soon as the fire had burned
a few feet the forward side of it was pounded out with wet sacks. It
didn’t matter about the other side. It could be allowed to eat back as
far as it liked; the farther the better.
“Good boy, Lin!” Transley shouted, as he drew up and surveyed
operations. “She played us a dirty trick, didn’t she?”
Linder looked up, red-eyed and coughing. “We can hold it here,” he said,
“but we can never cross the valley. The fire will be on us before we
have burned a mile. It will beat around our south flank and lick up
everything!”
Transley jumped from his horse. He seized Linder in his arms and
literally threw him into the saddle. “You’re played, boy!” he shouted in
his foreman’s ear. “Ride down to the river and get into the water, and
stay there until you know we can win!”
Then Transley threw himself into the fight. As the men said afterwards,
Linder fought like a wildcat, but Transley fought like a den of lions.
When the wagon galloped up from the river with barrels of water Transley
seized a barrel at the end and set it bodily on the ground. He sprang
into the wagon, shouting commands to horses and men. A hundred yards
they galloped along the fighting front; then Transley sprang out and set
another barrel on the ground. In this way, instead of having the men all
coming to the wagon to wet their sacks, he distributed water along the
line. Then they turned back, picked up the empty barrels, and galloped
to the river for a fresh supply.
Soon they had the first mile secure. The backfires had all met; the
forward line of flames had all been pounded out; the rear line had
burned back until there was no danger of it jumping the burned space.
Then Transley picked up his kit and rushed it on to a new front farther
south. At intervals of a hundred yards he started fires, holding them in
check and beating out the western edge as before.
But his difficulties were increasing. He was farther from the river.
It took longer to get water. One of the barrels fell off and collapsed.
Some of the men were playing out. The horses were wild with excitement
and terror. The smoke was growing denser and hotter. Men were coughing
and gasping through dry, seared lips.
“You can’t hold it, Transley; you can’t hold it!” said one of the men.
Transley hit him from the shoulder. He crumpled up and collapsed.
A mile and a half had been made safe, but the smoke was suffocatingly
thick and the roar of the oncoming fire rose above the shouts of the
fighters. Up galloped the water wagon; made a sharp lurch and turn,
and a front wheel collapsed with the shock. The wagon went down at one
corner and the barrels were dumped on the ground.
The men looked at Transley. For one moment he surveyed the situation.
“Is there a chain?” he demanded. There was.
“Hitch on to the tire of this broken wheel. Some of you men yank the hub
out of it. Others pull grass. Pull, like hell was after you!”
They pulled. In a minute or two Transley had the rim of the wheel flat
on the ground, with a team hitched to it and a little pile of dry grass
inside. Then he set fire to the little pile of grass and started the
team slowly along the battle front. As they moved the burning grass in
the rim set fire to the grass on the prairie underneath; the rim partly
rubbed it out again as it came over, and the men were able to keep what
remained in check, but as he lengthened his line Transley had to leave
more and more men to beat out the fire, and had fewer to pull grass.
The sacks were too wet to burn; he had to have grass to feed his moving
fire-spreader.
At length he had only a teamster and himself, and his fire was going
out. Transley whipped off his shirt, rolled it into a little heap,
set fire to it, and ran along beside the rim, firing the little moving
circle of grass inside.
It was the teamster, looking back, who saw Transley fall. He had to drop
the lines to run to his assistance, and the horses, terrified by smoke
and fire and the excitement of the fight, immediately bolted. The
teamster took Transley in his arms and half carried, half dragged him
into the safe area behind the backfires. And a few minutes later the
main fire, checked on its front, swept by on the flank and raced on up
through the valley.
In riding down to the assistance of Mrs. Landson Zen found herself
suddenly caught in an eddy of smoke. She did not realize at the moment
that the wind had turned; she thought she must have ridden into the fire
area. To avoid the possibility of being cut off by the fire, and also
for better air, she turned her horse to the river. All through the
valley were billows of smoke, with here and there a reddish-yellow
glare marking the more vicious sections of flame. Vaguely, at times, she
thought she caught the shouting of men, but all the heavens seemed full
of roaring.
When Zen reached the water the smoke was hanging low on it, and she
drove her horse well in. Then she swung down the stream, believing that
by making a detour in this way she could pass the wedge of fire that had
interrupted her and get back on to the trail leading to Landson’s.
She was coughing with the smoke, but rode on in the confidence that
presently it would lift.
It did. A whip of wind raised it like a strong arm throwing off a
blanket. She sat up and breathed freely. The hot sun shone through rifts
in the canopy of smoke; the blue sky looked down serene and unmoved by
this outburst of the elements. Then as Zen brought her eyes back to
the water she saw a man on horseback not forty yards ahead. Her first
thought was that it must be one of the fire fighters, driven like
herself to safety, but a second glance revealed George Drazk. For
a moment she had an impulse to wheel and ride out, but even as she
smothered that impulse a tinge of color rose in her cheeks that she
should for a moment have entertained it. To let George Drazk think she
was afraid of him would be utmost humiliation.
She continued straight down the stream, but he had already seen her and
was headed her way. In the excitement of what he had just done Drazk was
less responsible than usual.
“Hello, Zen!” he said. “Mighty decent of you to ride down an’ meet me
like this. Mighty decent, Zen!”
“I didn’t ride down to meet you, Drazk, and you know it. Keep out of the
way or I’ll use a whip on you!”
“Oh, how haughty! Y.D. all over! Never mind, dear, I like you all the
better for that. Who wants a tame horse? An’ as for comin’ down to meet
me, what’s the odds, so long as we’ve met?”
He had turned his horse and blocked the way in front of her. When Zen’s
horse came within reach Drazk caught him by the bridle.
“Will you let go?” the girl said, speaking as calmly as she could, but
in a white passion. “Will you let go of that bridle, or shall I make
you?”
He looked her full in the face. “Gad, but you’re a stunner!” he
exclaimed. “I’m glad we met--here.”
She brought her whip with a biting cut around the wrist that held her
bridle. Drazk winced, but did not let go.
“Jus’ for that, young Y.D.,” he hissed, “jus’ for that we drop all
formalities, so to speak.”
With a dexterous spurring he brought his horse alongside and threw an
arm about Zen before she could beat him off. She used her whip at short
range on his face, but had not arm-room in which to land a blow. They
were stirrup-deep in water, and as they struggled the horses edged in
deeper still. Finding that she could not beat Drazk off Zen clutched
her saddle and drove the spurs into her horse. At this unaccustomed
treatment he plunged wildly forward, but Drazk’s grip on her was too
strong to be broken. The manoeuvre had, however, the effect of unhorsing
Drazk. He fell in the water, but kept his grip on Zen. With his free
hand he still had the reins of his own horse, and he managed also to
get hold of hers. Although her horse was plunging and jumping, Drazk’s
strong grip on his rein kept him from breaking away.
“You fight well, Zen, damn you--you fight well,” he cried. “So you
might. You played with me--you made a fool of me. We’ll see who’s the
fool in the end.” With a mighty wrench he tore her from her saddle and
she found herself struggling with him in the water.
“If I put you under for a minute I guess you’ll be good,” he threatened.
“I’ll half drown you, Zen, if I have to.”
“Go ahead,” she challenged. “I’ll drown myself, if I have to.”
“Not just yet, Zen; not just yet. Afterwards you can do as you like.”
In their struggles they had been getting gradually into deeper water. At
this moment they found their feet carried free, and the horses began
to swim for the shore. Drazk held to both reins with one hand, still
clutching his victim with the other. More than once they went under
water together and came up half choking.
Zen was not a good swimmer, but she would gladly have broken away and
taken chances with the current. Once on land she would be at his mercy.
She was using her head frantically, but could think of no device to foil
him. It was not her practice to carry weapons; her whip had already gone
down the stream. Presently she saw a long leather thong floating out
from the saddle of Drazk’s horse. It was no larger than a whiplash;
apparently it was a spare lace which Drazk carried, and which had worked
loose in the struggle. It was floating close to Drazk.
“Don’t let me sink, George!” she cried frantically, in sudden fright.
“Save me! I won’t fight any more.”
“That’s better,” he said, drawing her up to him. “I knew you’d come to
your senses.”
Her hand reached the lash. With a quick motion of the arm, such as is
given in throwing a rope, she had looped it once around his neck. Then,
pulling the lash violently, she fought herself out of his grip. He
clutched at her wildly, but could reach only some stray locks of her
brown hair which had broken loose and were floating on the water.
She saw his eyes grow round and big and horrified; saw his mouth open
and refuse to close; heard strange little gurgles and chokings. But she
did not let go.
“When you insulted me this morning I promised to settle with you; I did
not expect to have the chance so soon.”
His head had gone under water.... Suddenly she realized that he was
drowning. She let go of the thong, clutched her horse’s tail, and was
pulled quickly ashore.
Sitting on the gravel, she tried to think. Drazk had disappeared; his
horse had landed somewhat farther down.... Doubtless Drazk had drowned.
Yes, that would be the explanation. Why change it?
Zen turned it over in her mind. Why make any explanations? It would be
a good thing to forget. She could not have done otherwise under the
circumstances; no jury would expect her to do otherwise. But why trouble
a jury about it?
“He got what was coming to him,” she said to herself presently. She
admitted no regret. On the contrary, her inborn self-confidence, her
assurance that she could take care of herself under any circumstances,
seemed to be strengthened by the experience.
She got up, drew her hair into some kind of shape, and scrambled a
little way up the steep bank. Clouds of smoke were rolling up the
valley. She did not grasp the significance of the fact at the first
glance, but in a moment it impacted home to her. The wind had changed!
Her help now would be needed, not by Mrs. Landson, but probably at their
own camp. She sprang on her horse, re-crossed the stream, and set out on
a gallop for the camp. On the way she had to ride through one thin line
of fire, which she accomplished successfully. Through the smoke she
could dimly see Transley’s gang fighting the back-fires. She knew that
was in good hands, and hastened on to the camp. Zen had had prairie
experience enough to know that in hours like this there is almost sure
to be something or somebody, in vital need, overlooked.
She galloped into the camp and found only Tompkins there. He had already
run a little back-fire to protect the tents and the chuck-wagon.
“How goes it, Tompkins?” she cried, bursting upon him like a courier
from battle.
“All set here, Ma’am,” he answered. “All set an’ safe. But they’ll never
hold the main fire; it’ll go up the valley hell-scootin’,--beggin’ your
pardon, Ma’am.”
“Anyone live up the valley?”
“There is. There’s the Lints--squatters about six miles up--it was
from them I got the cream an’ fresh eggs you was good enough to notice,
Ma’am. An’ there’s no men folks about; jus’ Mrs. Lint an’ a young herd
of little Lints; least, that’s all was there las’ night.”
“I must go up,” said Zen, with instant decision. “I can get there before
the fire, and as the Lints are evidently farmers there will be some
plowed land, or at least a plow with which to run a furrow so that we
can start a back-fire. Direct me.”
Tompkins directed her as to the way, and, leaving a word of explanation
to be passed on to her father, she was off. A half hour’s hard riding
brought her to Lint’s, but she found that this careful settler had made
full provision against such a contingency as was now come about. The
farm buildings, implements, stables, everything was surrounded, not by a
fire-guard, but by a broad plowed field. Mrs. Lint, however, was little
less thankful for Zen’s interest than she would have been had their
little steading been in danger. She pressed Zen to wait and have at
least a cup of tea, and the girl, knowing that she could be of little
or no service down the valley, allowed herself to be persuaded. In this
little harbor of quiet her mind began to arrange the day’s events. The
tragic happening at the river was as yet too recent to appear real; had
it not been for the touch of her wet clothing Zen could have thought
that all an unhappy dream of days ago. She reflected that neither
Tompkins nor Mrs. Lint had commented upon her appearance. The hot sun
had soon dried her outer apparel, and her general dishevelled condition
was not remarkable on such a day as this.
The wind had gone down as the afternoon waned, and the fire was working
up the valley leisurely when Zen set out on her return trip. A couple of
miles from the Lint homestead she met its advance guard. It was evening
now; the sun shone dull red through the banked clouds of smoke resting
against the mountains to the west; the flames danced and flickered,
advanced and receded, sprang up and died down again, along mile after
mile of front. It was a beautiful thing to behold, and Zen drew her
horse to a stop on a hill-top to take in the grandeur of the scene. Near
at hand frolicking flames were working about the base of the hill,
and far down the valley and over the foothills the flanks of the fire
stretched like lines of impish infantry in single file.
Suddenly she heard the sound of hoofs, and a rider drew up at her side.
She supposed him one of Transley’s men, but could not recall having seen
him in the camp. He sat his horse with an ease and grace that her eye
was quick to appraise; he removed his broad felt hat before he spoke;
and he did not call her “ma’am.”
“Pardon me--I believe I am speaking to Y.D.’s daughter?” he asked, and
before waiting for a reply hastened to introduce himself. “My name is
Dennison Grant, foreman on the Landson ranch.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed. “I thought--I thought you were one of Mr.
Transley’s men.” Then, with a quick sense of the barrier between them,
she added, “I hope you don’t think that I--that we--had anything to do
with this?” She indicated the ruined valley with her hand.
“No more than I had to do with those coward’s stakes,” he answered.
“Neither of us understand just now, but can we take that much for
granted?”
There was something about him that rather appealed to her. “I think we
can,” she said, simply.
For a moment they watched the kaleidoscopic scene below them. “It may
help you to understand,” she continued, “if I say that I was riding down
to see if I could be of some use to Mrs. Landson when the wind changed,
and I saw I would be more likely to be needed here.”
“And it may help you to understand,” he said, “if I say that as soon as
immediate danger to the Landson ranch was over I rode up to Transley’s
camp. Only the cook was there, and he told me of your having set out
to help Mrs. Lint, so I followed up. Fortunately the fire has lost its
punch; it will probably go out through the night.”
There was a short silence, in which she began to realize her peculiar
position. This man was the rival of Transley and Linder in the business
of hay-cutting in the valley. He was the foreman of the Landson
crowd--Landson, against whom her father had been voicing something very
near to murder threats not many hours ago. Had she met him before the
fire she would have spurned and despised him, but nothing unites the
factions of man like a fight against a common elemental enemy. Besides,
there was the question, How DID the fire start? That was a question
which every Landson man would be asking. Grant had been generous about
it; he had asked her to be equally generous about the episode of the
stakes.... And there was something about the man that appealed to her.
She had never felt that way about Transley or Linder. She had been
interested in them; amused, perhaps; out for an adventure, perhaps; but
this man--Nonsense! It was the environment--the romantic setting. As for
Drazk--A quick sense of horror caught her as the memory of his choking
face protruded into her consciousness....
“Well, suppose we ride home,” he suggested. “By Jove! The fire has
worked around us.”
It was true. The hill on which they stood was now entirely surrounded
by a ring of fire, eating slowly up the side. The warmth of its breath
already pressed against their faces; the funnel effect created by the
circle of fire was whipping up a stronger draught. The smoke seemed to
be gathering to a centre above them.
He swung up close to her. “Will your horse face it?” he asked. “If not,
we’d better blindfold him.”
“I’ll try him,” she said. “He was all right this afternoon, but he was
reckless then with a hard gallop.”
Zen’s horse trotted forward at her urging to within a dozen yards of the
circle of fire. Then he stopped, snorting and shivering. She rode back
up the hill.
“Better blindfold him,” Grant advised, pulling off his leather coat. “A
sleeve of my shirt should be about right. Will you cut it off?”
She protested.
“There’s no time to lose,” he reminded her, as he placed his knife in
her hand. “My horse will go through it all right.”
So urged she deftly cut off his sleeve above the elbow and drew it
through the bridle of her horse across his eyes.
“Now keep your head down close to his neck. You’ll go through all right.
Give him the spurs, and good luck!” he shouted.
She was already careering down the hillside. A few paces from the fire
the horse plunged into a badger hole and fell headlong. She went over
his head, down, with a terrific shock, almost in the very teeth of the
fire.