roadway. Half a hundred feet away was the bus, its lights glowing, but
no other sign of animation coming from the mechanical monster.
The smoke was not yet thick in this valley and for this Janet was
thankful for the other members of the company obviously had not become
panicky.
Billy Fenstow saw them first.
"What about the fire?" he asked.
"It's bad. We've got to get out of here and without losing any time. How
about the bus?"
"It won't even cough," moaned the director.
"Any word from the man you sent for help?"
"Not yet. What'll we do?" There was an anxious note in Billy Fenstow's
voice.
"I don't know yet, but we'll do something."
Curt strode forward to the front end of the bus where the male members
of the company were grouped.
"Any chance of getting going within the next five or ten minutes?" he
asked the director, who was almost buried under the hood.
"Afraid not," came the smothered reply. "I've found the trouble but it's
going to take about half an hour to get it fixed."
Curt turned and faced Bill Fenstow.
"That's too long," he warned the director. "The wind's getting worse and
that fire's coming fast now. In another half hour this valley will be an
inferno. It will be impossible for anyone to live in it."
"Then we'd better start back for the ranch afoot," said the director.
Curt's laugh was hard and thin and Janet, hearing it, thought it was a
desperate laugh.
"The fire would overtake us before we could get near the ranch," said
Curt. "We've got to make a stand and we might as well make it here."
"What can we do?" It was the director asking the question.
"We can start a backfire and burn off as much ground around here as
possible. While some of us are doing that the others can see what they
can do in getting the bus fixed. If it's done in time, we'll run for it;
if it isn't this is as good a place as any."
Helen came close to Janet.
"Is it that bad?" she whispered.
"I'm afraid it is," admitted Janet. "Scared?"
"Scared to death," confessed Helen.
"So am I," admitted Janet. "But maybe there is something we can do to
help the men."
Every member of the company was anxious and willing to do whatever they
could and Curt Newsom snapped directions at them. Most of the men raced
out into the brush and almost instantly small fires sprang up. They ate
their way rapidly through the undergrowth and as they neared the bus
itself were beaten out, the men using coats, blankets or whatever
article they could find in the bus. In less than ten minutes there was a
growing blackened area around the stalled vehicle. Their object was to
create a large enough burned over area so that the main wall of the
advancing fire would move around them.
Curt told them frankly that the heat would be bad, almost unbearable,
but they could live through it.
The ridge from which Janet and Helen had discovered the fire was
outlined against a sky shot with crimson for it was quite dark now.
Small animals, scurrying before the red menace, were racing past almost
constantly.
The fires which had been started around the bus were spreading out in a
great circle, eating their way hungrily along the parched ground. In the
light from them Janet could see Curt stalking here and there, directing
one group and then another, and pausing now to beat down some flame with
his blanket.
Both girls felt particularly helpless, for there seemed to be nothing
they could do, and Helen, her light shoes torn and thin, was
particularly wretched, for her feet were sore and bruised.
A sharp cry came from one of the men who had remained with the driver in
an effort to get the bus repaired. Someone leaped into the seat, there
was the whir of the starter and the heavy vehicle shook as its powerful
motor thundered into motion.
The driver slid out from under the hood. His face was a smear of grease
and his shirt was badly torn, for he had been working in close quarters.
He stumbled, reeling from fatigue, but someone caught him and lifted him
into the bus. Another man sounded the horn and the fire-builders, led by
Curt and Billy Fenstow, returned to the bus.
"Think the motor will hold up?" Curt snapped at the driver.
"It ought to, but I can't be sure," was the tired reply.
"What do you want to do?" The cowboy fired the question at the director.
"Get out of here and get out quick!" cried the director.
"Where'll you go?" Curt snapped the question back.
Billy Fenstow stared at him for just a moment.
"Hollywood, of course. Everybody in!"
But Curt laid a restraining hand on the director.
"The road ahead curves back directly into the path of the flame. If we
swing around this promontory, we'll be cut off ahead and before we can
get back the flames will be over this section of the road. We can only
go back."
"Then back to the ranch we go," decided the director, and again he
called, "Everybody in!"
Members of the company jammed their way into the bus and Curt took the
wheel for the driver was too exhausted to handle the heavy vehicle.
The smoke was thick now and the first flames were licking their way over
the crest of the ridge far above them.
With the motor roaring heavily, Curt threw in the gears and swung the
big vehicle about in a sharp circle. Then, with the headlights vainly
trying to bore through the almost stifling smoke, they raced back down
the road.
It was dangerous going, for Curt's vision was cut down to less than
three rods, but speed was essential now and they plunged through the
smoky night at a reckless pace.
Chapter Eight
THE LINE GOES DEAD
Lights in the interior of the bus were out now for Curt didn't dare run
the risk that they might interfere with his vision. The heavy vehicle
swayed from side to side as they bounced over the winding road and Janet
and Helen clung to each other for protection.
Smoke was swirling across the road and the acrid fumes swept through the
open windows of the bus, but there was no time now to close them.
They raced out of the valley they had been in, shot up over a slight
rise, and descended into another valley, the glare of the flames being
lost to view for the time.
"Think we'll make it?" gasped Helen, clinging tightly to Janet's right
arm.
"We've got to," replied Janet. "The last shots for the picture are in
the bus."
"I'm not worrying about the picture; it's us," retorted Helen. "My eyes
hurt; so do my feet."
Janet couldn't help smiling for Helen was very much matter of fact.
There was a sharp report under the bus, like a gunshot or the backfire
of the exhaust. But it was neither and the girls were thrown heavily
against the side of the bus as the left rear tire let go.
The heavy machine swayed dangerously with Curt fighting for control. The
brakes screamed as they ground to a stop and Curt leaped out to survey
the damage. The driver followed him and then Billy Fenstow followed.
The driver turned on his flashlight and Janet could hear Curt's muttered
exclamation of disgust.
"We can change; we've got a spare," the driver said.
"We've got to and we'll have to work fast," snapped Curt.
Under the lashing directions of the cowboy star, other members of the
company turned to and lent a hand. Tools were taken out, a big jack was
placed under the rear axle, and the work started.
From somewhere behind came the ominous roar of the fire and the sky
behind the ridge they had just topped crimsoned. Helen, her thin oxfords
badly cut, shifted miserably from one foot to another and longed for a
hot bath in which to soak her aching feet.
While Curt and several assistants wrestled with the task of getting the
flat tire off, the driver managed to get the spare wheel down from its
rack at the rear.
"Not much air in it," he grumbled.
"There never is," snapped Curt, "but you know how to use a pump."
Billy Fenstow seized the pump, fastened the hose to the valve on the
tire, and bent his tired body to the task of increasing the air pressure
in the big tire.
It was a tedious, wracking job, and the men alternated, working at top
speed for a minute, then giving way to another fresher one.
Curt, scanning the horizon above the ridge, urged them to greater haste.
"Fire's getting close," he warned. "We've got to get under way."
Billy Fenstow unfastened the pump and Curt seized the big steel wheel
with its huge casing. Other willing hands helped him get it on the axle.
Anxious fingers sped the bolts into place and they tightened them as
rapidly as possible.
"Get going!" Curt yelled at the driver.
"How about the jack?"
"Never mind that. Throw her in gear and she'll come off. That fire's
coming fast now."
As though in answer to Curt's warning, the flames shot over the top of
the nearest ridge and started down. They seemed to be racing now with
the speed of a greyhound, leaping from thicket to thicket with
unbelievable rapidity.
Janet and Helen, clinging together on the back seat, watched it with
fascinated eyes. The fire was a living, advancing thing that might
surround and swallow them in its flaming greed. The thought sent a
deadening chill through Janet and for a moment she closed her eyes to
the red spectacle.
The motor of the bus roared again as Curt trod heavily on the starter.
The big vehicle pulsated with power and there was the crash of gears as
they lurched ahead and the left rear wheel dropped off the jack.
Like a frightened elephant the bus leaped forward, its headlights once
more boring through the smoke-laden night air.
Curt drove with reckless abandon, tramping the accelerator down almost
to the floor boards. His passengers were flung from one side of the
lunging vehicle to another, but they knew that only in speed now lay
their hope for salvation and none of them cried out as their bruised
bodies were flung back and forth.
Janet and Helen managed to wedge themselves in a corner where, by
clinging together, they could escape with only a minimum of bouncing
about.
Suddenly the road straightened out and the smoke thinned. Janet
recognized where they were. It was the last half mile which led back to
the ranch where they had completed shooting the new picture only that
afternoon.
They had outdistanced the racing flames and Curt reduced the wild speed
of the bus. In less than five minutes they swung into the broad yard of
the ranch, but there were no lights in the house nor in the bunkhouse.
Curt blasted sharply on the horn, but there was no sign or sound of life
anywhere.
"Looks like everyone's sound asleep," said Billy Fenstow, who was
rubbing his bruises gingerly.
"They've probably taken to the hills," replied Curt.
They unloaded and entered the ranchhouse. Curt lighted a lamp and it was
evident from the disorder in the rooms that the owners had fled hastily.
The corrals were open and all of the stock had been turned loose.
Janet and Helen stopped beside the water tank. Their throats were dry
and tasted heavily of smoke so they drank deeply of the cool, fresh
water.
Curt, pausing for a moment, stuck his whole head in the tank, and then
drank from the cup the girls offered him. As he gulped down the water he
watched the crimson horizon northwest of the ranch.
"Looks like we're going to be safe here unless the wind swings around a
little more," he observed.
"I'm worried about the folks. They know what time we were going to start
back and they'll be frantic when they hear about the fire," said Helen.
"Phone line may still be up," said Curt. "Go in the house and see if you
can get a call through."
Helen turned and hastened toward the house while Curt rejoined the men,
who were staying near the bus. The driver was buried under the hood
again, making sure that there would be no recurrence of their previous
engine trouble.
Janet followed Helen into the ranchhouse. The phone, an old-fashioned
wall instrument, was in the dining room. There was a large plate of
cookies, evidently left from supper, on the table, and neither girl
could resist helping herself to several. Helen munched them as she
cranked the telephone and listened for an answer from the operator in
the nearest town. At last the response came.
Helen, talking rapidly, gave her father's address and phone number in
Hollywood. In less than five minutes the call was through and she heard
her father's voice on the other end of the wire.
"Hello, Dad. This is Helen."
"Where are we? Back at the ranch. No, we're safe enough. The bus broke
down and we had to turn back when the fire cut us off.
"Now don't worry, Dad. Curt Newsom says he thinks the fire will swing
around us. If it doesn't, we can take to the hills back of the ranch.
We'll come through all right. Tell Mother not to worry.
"What's that----?"
Helen repeated the question, then looked blankly at Janet.
"See if you can hear him," she urged and Janet took the receiver.
"Hello, Mr. Thorne," she said. But there was no answer. She repeated the
question and this time when there was no answer mechanically hung up the
receiver.
"The line's dead," she told Helen. "The fire must have brought down the
poles."
The girls stared hard at each other through smoke-rimmed eyes. The
telephone had given them a sense of security, a feeling of contact with
the outside world. Now they were cut off with the flames behind them and
only the rugged hills ahead.
Chapter Nine
THE FIRE SWEEPS ON
When Janet and Helen returned to the spacious ranch yard, they found the
men in the company gathered in a council of war near the bus. They were
debating whether to risk remaining at the ranch or attempt to push on
into the hills and onto higher ground.
Billy Fenstow felt the ranch would be safe and was loath to attempt to
go any further, but Curt Newsom, who had been watching the shifting
clouds of crimson, was wary.
"A little more and the wind will shift enough to bring the fire down
into this valley. Once it's here it will travel like a race horse and
we'll never reach safety," he warned.
The director pointed to several heavy steel containers which held the
last of the shots for "Water Hole."
"Who's going to lug those through the hills?" he demanded.
"We could take turns," retorted Curt. "Here's a better one. Are those
cans watertight?" He shot the question at one of the cameramen.
"They're safe enough, all right," he replied.
"Then let's fasten wires to the handles and lower them into the well
here. If we have to run for it, we'll not be bothered with these heavy
containers and we'll know the last shots are safe."
Billy Fenstow agreed that Curt's suggestion was an excellent one and
they scattered in search of a coil of wire. One was found near the
bunkhouse. It was fastened to one of the containers and the heavy steel
receptacle was lowered into the well. The wire was cut and the upper end
securely fastened to a timber. Then the operation was repeated, the
second can being lowered until it reached the bottom of the well. Curt
snipped the wire with a pair of pliers and fastened the end with the
first one.
Janet had been watching the skyline intently. Perhaps she was simply
over-wrought, but she felt sure that the crimson glow had brightened as
though the fire was nearer their own valley.
"Watch the skyline," she urged Helen. "See if the glow is brightening."
Helen peered through the half-light. Then she shook her head.
"I can't be sure, but I think the fire must be nearer," she said. "Had
we better tell Curt?"
"Yes. He'll want to know."
The girls called the lanky cowboy aside and Janet confided her fears to
him.
Curt spun on his heels and stared into the flame-rent sky.
"Maybe I'm imagining things, but it looks bad," he muttered. Then he
called Billy Fenstow over to him and the rotund little director agreed
that the fire must be getting nearer.
Curt sniffed the smoke. "It's getting thicker. We'd better get out of
here."
"What about the bus?" demanded the director.
"We'll use that as far as we can. There's a trail that goes at least a
mile back in the hills. After that we'll have to go on afoot."
Orders snapped from Curt's lips. Back into the bus piled the company,
Janet and Helen were among the last and they stopped long enough beside
the well for deep drinks of the cool water. It might be many an hour
before they would have such an opportunity again.
Curt took the wheel for he knew the trail into the hills. The motor
roared with a heavy song of power and they were away once more, fleeing
before the ever-hungry flames.
Janet and Helen sank back on the cushions of the rear seat. The trail
was soft and sandy and although the bus lurched heavily at times, they
had an opportunity to relax a little.
Helen slipped off her oxfords and rubbed her aching feet.
"Oh, for a good, hot bath," she moaned. "My feet will never be the same
again."
"Mine ache a little even with my boots on," admitted Janet. She would
have liked to have slipped out of her boots and wriggled her toes but
they were too hard to lace up again.
Curt was driving with a desperate intentness as the going became more
difficult. The trail had faded into two thin tracks and it was rougher
now.
Sharp rocks protruded and at any moment a tire might give way. But they
kept on boring into the hills. The engine was working hard now as they
ascended a grade and Janet looked back through the broad, rear window of
the bus.
The valley they had just left was plainly visible and topping the ridge
above the ranchhouse were the first racing tongues of flame. They had
started just in time.
Helen turned around and together the girls watched the fire skip down
the slope. When the scene was finally shut off by their own descent into
another valley, the fire was almost to the ranchhouse and Janet felt
sick at heart as she thought of the destruction which was inevitable for
the friendly, rambling old structure.
The trail they had been following faded completely away and Curt brought
the bus to a stop.
"Want to get out and walk or shall we go on in the bus?"
The director's reply came quickly.
"Where can we go?"
Curt shrugged his shoulder.
"You know as well as I do. We've got to go someplace; anywhere to stay
ahead of the fire."
"Then jam the bus along as far as it will go," ordered the director.
"Who's going to pay for the damage?" demanded the driver.
"Never mind that," snapped Curt. "The first thing is to save our own
necks. Then we'll worry about the bus."
"But I'll have to report what happened to the company."
"You'll be lucky to get back and make a report," retorted the cowboy.
They lurched into motion once more, traveling almost blindly now, and
much slower.
Curt felt his way around clumps of underbrush and outcroppings of rock.
The wind, swirling along with them, carried a heavy curtain of smoke.
They were rolling down a long slope when a front tire let go with an
explosion like that from a young cannon and Curt twisted desperately at
the wheel, fighting for control of the big vehicle. The driver jumped to
help him and between the two of them they brought it to a halt without
an upset.
Curt jumped out to survey the damage and returned almost at once.
"No chance of repairing the tire even if there was time," he announced.
"We'll see how much further we can go."
With both Curt and the bus driver clinging to the wheel, they started
on, though traveling at a painfully slow pace.
At the bottom of the valley they stopped, a thin ribbon of a stream
blocking their way.
Once more the cowboy lunged out into the smoke-filled night to stamp
through the shallow waters of the stream. The bottom seemed fairly firm
and Curt returned and took the wheel.
"We'll try to go through, but everyone unload. No use to carry any
excess weight."
The entire company piled out of the bus and watched Curt start across
the stream. He made good progress, the front wheels climbing out on the
other bank and for a moment it looked like he was going across. Then the
sand gave way and the back wheels churned up a spray of sand and dirty
water.
Curt snapped off the ignition and jumped out of the bus.
"We're stalled for keeps," he informed them, "but this is about as good
a place as we'll find. We'll start backfires and then when it gets bad,
we can get under a bank along this creek. There'll be water to help us
here."
Under Curt's dynamic orders, half a dozen backfires were started, the
men working like mad to clear away the underbrush and destroy all
inflammable material near the creek bank where they had decided to make
their stand.
There was little that Janet and Helen could do, but they insisted on
seizing old coats, wetting them in the stream, and using them to beat
out the flames of the backfires when they had spread far enough.
The burned area widened rapidly, but Curt spurred his workers on with
renewed pleas and cajoling. One of the cameramen, slipping away to the
bus for a minute, trained his camera on the scene and started grinding
away. The crest of the hill above them was now outlined in a strong,
crimson and the shadowy forms of the workers were visible as they
hastened from one backfire to another. Janet saw the cameraman working,
but she knew their work had progressed far enough so the absence of one
man would not make a great deal of difference. Then, too, she knew that
he might get some shots which would be invaluable in some film needing
good fire sequences.
Fortunately the bank they had selected had been heavily undercut by the
stream and would afford them protection. Curt set several of the men to
the task of digging further into the bank and they worked with
improvised tools taken from the bus.
Janet and Helen soaked the coats they had been using again and returned
to the task of beating down the backfires. Curt joined them for a
minute.
"Better get back under the bank. This thing is going to come down this
slope like a hurricane," he warned.
"We'll wait until the others start down," said Janet, but he took their
coats and shoved them toward the creek.
"Get going," he ordered, and his voice was firm.
They obeyed, for already the fire was starting down the slope and the
girls hastened to the creek bed.
The water was shallow, not more than six inches deep in any place and
the bottom was sandy. Helen slipped off her torn shoes and wiggled her
toes in the cool luxury of the water. Just then she forgot to worry all
about the fire in the pleasant delight of having her feet comfortable if
even for the moment.
Men who had been working on the backfires came tumbling over the bank,
falling and splashing into the water, but no one minded being dirty or
wet.
Janet could hear a roaring that sounded like the beat of scores of
kettle drums--a roaring that was increasing in intensity and furore.
Splashing along the sandy bottom, she came to a lower place in the bank
where she could look up the slope.
A solid wall of flame topped the crest, then swept down with an amazing
rapidity. The air was hot and searing like a blast from an over-heated
furnace.
A handful of men were still grouped around Curt, working until the last
moment to spread the backfire as far as possible.
Helen, padding through the shallow water, joined Janet and they watched
the awesome scene together. The roar of the onrushing fire increased and
waves of heat beat against their faces. Janet knew that it must be
terrific out on the slope and she wondered when Curt would lead his men
in.
One of them, gasping and choking, ran toward the creek, lunged past
them, and hurled himself face downward in the water.
Seconds later Janet heard Curt's cry and the rest of the men, with Curt
and Billy Fenstow bringing up the rear, ran toward the creek bank.
The director stumbled and fell heavily and the cowboy bent down and
picked him up. Carrying the director in his arms, Curt, staggering under
the extra burden, ran on. One of the men leaped over the bank to help
and together they eased the little director into the water.
Curt turned instantly and watched the rushing flames. The roar was so
loud now that it was impossible to communicate with one another except
by shouting and Curt ran from one to another, shouting and pounding them
down under the bank where they would get the utmost protection.
Reaching out he jerked Janet and Helen sharply and jostled them under
the bank.
"Get under there and stay under. Put a wet cloth to your nose and mouth.
Don't breath any more than you have to."
Neither one of them possessed handkerchiefs, for these articles had gone
astray long before. One sleeve of Janet's dress had been ripped and she
tore the whole thing out, ripped it again, and gave Helen one half of
it. They dipped the cloth in the creek, squeezed a little of the water
out, and applied the makeshift mask to their faces.