THE END OF THE HIKE.
While Alec and Blake remained at their post of duty on the rock,
exchanging messages with Lieutenant Denmead’s half of the corps—who, as
soon as they understood the need, hurried across the meadow, entered the
town, and went directly to the only engine house of which Oakvale could
boast,—Hugh and Spike hastened back some distance up the hill, to see
whence the fire was coming and how far it had already spread. Joe, on
his part, decided to set out for the farmhouse to give warning, if it
should be necessary. He lingered only to make sure that Alec’s and
Blake’s sendings were received and understood by the others in the town.
In the excitement attending the discovery of the fire, when he leaped
down from the rock to follow Spike up hill, Hugh lost his little
leather-covered tablet or note-book in which he had jotted down
memoranda of the march. That is, it fell from his pocket and lay at the
base of the rock upon which Alec and Blake stood waving and wig-wagging.
Alec saw it fall, and an expression of mean satisfaction stole over his
face. Clambering down from the rock, for a moment, he ground the little
note-book into the soft earth with his heel, then took up his position
once more.
He did not see Joe watching this act, nor did he count on the
halfbreed’s secret preference for Hugh. He only realized that without
these notes Hugh would be unable to write a good report of the hike, and
would therefore fail to win the leadership of the signal corps.
To their surprise, Hugh and Spike found that the breeze, instead of
blowing the fire up hill, as it ordinarily would do, was sending it down
the slope from a point about half way from the summit; also, that the
fire was spreading in an irregular semi-circle which would sweep over
the farm as it advanced. They made strenuous efforts to stamp out the
end of the blazing curve by beating it with branches torn from a young
sapling, and succeeded in getting a very small part of it under control.
Fortunately, the ground was covered thickly with leaves and leaf-mould,
damp after recent rains, and so the tongues of flame rose no higher than
the lowest branches of the trees, which they licked greedily and then
passed on, seeking whatever they might devour.
Finding their best efforts of little avail, Spike and Hugh hastened to
rejoin their companions.
When they came to the rock, they found the others had gone on.
“Probably they’ve gone to the farmhouse,” said Spike. “Come on, Hugh!
Which way? Hurry!”
“Look!” Hugh responded, glancing around and pointing to a huge fir tree,
upon the trunk of which an arrow was freshly blazed. “There’s one of
Joe’s signs. They’ve gone in the direction this arrow points.”
“I wond-wonder—what—sort o’ help the lieutenant and—and his scouts
found—found in the vil-village?” panted Spike, as they ran on down hill,
plunging through clumps of second-growth pines, now slipping over the
smooth brown “needles,” now crashing through masses of trailing vines
and tall ferns.
“Nothing but a one-horse engine and-and a bucket brigade, most likely!”
Hugh replied, coughing in the smoke that came drifting between the
trees.
Presently they emerged from the wood and came out upon the wide clearing
in the center of which stood the farmhouse, the big red barn, and a
group of smaller buildings. Before them lay a swampy meadow, evidently a
hog-pasture, surrounded by a rail fence; on their right extended an
orchard whose trees were heavy with green fruit; beyond that, a
cornfield glistened in the sunlight; and, still further, acres of waving
grain swayed lightly as the breeze passed over them. Strange to say, not
an animal nor a human being save themselves was to be seen, and an
uncanny silence reigned over the farm.
Hugh vaulted over the rail fence, followed by Spike, and together they
began to pick their way as rapidly as possible across the pasture.
“Lucky thing this is swampy,” remarked Hugh, “because the fire won’t be
able to crawl over this—ugh!—muck, and get near the barn.”
“No; but don’t forget it is creeping around from that side,” Spike
answered gloomily. “There’s where the danger lies.”
“You’re right. But where on earth are the rest of the crowd? Is this
place deserted?”
“Looks so, certainly. Hello! There’s someone coming from the house!”
Even as he spoke, an old woman appeared in the doorway and came forth,
shading her eyes with one hand and blinking anxiously around her.
Catching sight of the two youths as they ran toward her, she called out:
“Fer th’ land’s sake! More o’ yer! Boys, is it true there’s a fire broke
out on ther mountain? Two boys an’ a wild-lookin’ man come along here,
’bout half an hour ago, yellin’ like demons from ther pit, and they
scart me an’ my ol’ man out o’ our senses!”
“They told the truth, ma’am,” said Spike, with breathless politeness.
“But don’t be alarmed,” Hugh added reassuringly. “It may not be a very
dangerous fire, and we’ve sent for help from Oakvale. Are you alone
here? I mean, is there anyone who——?”
“Nary a soul but me and Jake,” returned the old woman. “Jake Walsh is my
husband; he’s laid up in bed with the rheumatiz,” she added, by way of
explanation, “an’ our son Tom’s gone to town with the calves.”
“Are there any cattle in the barn?” inquired Hugh.
“The ol’ bay-mare—but ye can’t call her cattle,” was the answer. “Ther
cows is all in that meadow, yonder. But ther barn’s full o’ hay!”
In a flash, both boys thought of the destruction that wind-driven sparks
might create, if they should chance to light upon that dry old barn.
“Oh, what’ll I do? What’ll I do?” wailed the poor woman, wringing her
hands as she began to realize the seriousness of the situation. “I never
dreamed as there’d be any danger o’ fire in the woods this summer,
though Tom has often ernough spoke o’ folks’ carelessness a-lightin’
fires an’ leavin’ ’em lay. I can’t leave Jake! I can’t get away from
here with him not able ter walk! An’ Tom’s took ther only wagon we have!
Oh, what——?”
“We’ll help you, Mrs. Walsh,” declared Hugh. “Besides, the village
fire-brigade will be here soon.
“Spike, you’d better climb up that windmill, and see if you can
communicate with the village,” he added, and Welling hastened to obey.
“I can see the engine-house,” Spike called down, a few minutes later.
“There’s a little tower on it, and someone is up in the tower, waving a
flag. It’s Don Miller; I can tell by the way he jerks the flag. He’s
sending: ‘We get your message now—fire brigade rushed to farm—close
by—do your best.’”
They did their best, too. Long before the little engine-and-hose-cart
had reached the outskirts of the farm, they had carried old Jake Walsh
on an improvised litter out of the house and some distance away to an
abandoned cellar, roofed over with boards and sods. Leaving him there in
charge of his wife, they had returned to the farmyard, drawn buckets of
water from the well, poured them over the roof and walls of the
dwelling, and had begun “policing” the farmyard, watching for sparks,
when they were surprised and relieved to hear shouts at a distance.
The shouts seemed to come from the wood. They were accompanied by the
thud of many galloping hoofs and a crashing through the thick
underbrush.
Presently more than a dozen horsemen dashed into view, brandishing long
poles wrapped with wet blankets. They were the advance guard of the
fire-fighters, who had galloped to the scene along an old disused
logging road through the woods. Without stopping to ask needless
questions, these horsemen turned and made off at full speed, spiralling
up the hill in single file, shouting and calling as they rode.
“Wish we could follow them!” said Hugh, gazing after the vanishing forms
until they disappeared in the shadows of the forest and their shouts
became mere echoes. “But I guess we’ll have our work cut out for us
here.”
“That’s just what I was thinking,” answered Spike ruefully.
The two youths did not waste much time in unavailing wishes. Every now
and then they ran to the outskirts of the farm and penetrated a little
way into the wood, to learn, if they could, whether the fire was drawing
nearer. Not being thoroughly acquainted with the topography of this
particular tract of land, they did not know what obstacles the fire
might meet in its path, such as green hollows, cup-like bogs in the
depressions of the hills, streams, or even small ponds. All these were
possible, for the country for miles and miles around Pioneer Camp was
unusually varied.
As it chanced, there was a swiftly flowing brook—which in places widened
to the size of a small stream—not far away, on the edge of the pasture
where a few cows were stolidly grazing; and this stream was the hope of
old Jake Walsh, the one bulwark against the attack of the dreadful
enemy. On their tour of the farm, Hugh and Spike discovered this running
stream, and they realized its value as a means of defence.
The worst danger, as they knew, was from flying sparks; so they kept a
careful watch for these. Two old straw-stacks in the barnyard would go
like tinder, if these were once ignited, and Mr. Walsh advised the boys
to draw water from the horse-tank under the windmill, climb the stacks,
and “souse ’em good an’ plenty.”
“I’d help ye, if I only could!” groaned Jake Walsh, after giving this
urgent advice. “But, consarn these old good-fer-nothin’ limbs o’ mine!
they ain’t a bit o’ use no more. I might’s well have one foot in ther
grave as have my whole livin’ carkiss laid up like this!”
“Come, now; never you mind, Jake,” soothed his wife. “Me an’ ther boys
is lively lads, and we’ll take good care o’ them stacks.” This was more
easily said than done; nevertheless, with Hugh perched aloft on top of
the stack, and with Spike and old Mrs. Walsh forming a bucket-brigade
and handing pails of water up to him, the task was somehow accomplished.
In the midst of their labors they paused, hearing the sound of wheels
along the road.
“Perhaps that’s your son returning?” suggested Spike.
“No, it ain’t him,” declared Mrs. Walsh, putting her hand to her ear.
“Tom took ther heavy farm waggin, and it would make a louder noise than
that. Besides, Polly always whinnies when she’s nearin’ home, an’ ther
ol’ mare answers her.”
“It’s a horse and buggy,” Hugh announced from his look-out. “There comes
another, with three men in it. Hand me one more bucket-full, Spike, old
scout. Now! I guess we’ve soused the stack enough.”
He slid down the slippery side of the straw-stack, and the three workers
awaited the coming of the first arrivals from the village.
“I’m goin’ back to see how my ol’ man’s gettin’ on; he’s like to be
fussin’ an’ frettin’,” said Mrs. Walsh. “If Tom’s come back in thet
buggy, leavin’ the waggin ter be fetched later, he’ll know what ter do
now.”
So saying, she walked slowly away to the warm, dry cellar where her
husband directed the proceedings like a general on a battlefield.
In a few minutes the buggy rattled into the farmyard, and Tom Walsh and
his two companions sprang from it to pour a volley of questions and
thanks upon the two boys. It was not long before the farmyard became the
scene of a motley gathering of Oakvale’s livelier inhabitants, men,
women, and children, who drove up in all sorts of vehicles, including
automobiles, and brought every conceivable implement for fighting a
forest fire. Most of them did not linger there long, but set out for the
woods.
Billy Worth arrived on horseback.
“’Twasn’t possible to fetch the hosecart all this way up here,”
explained Tom, “but we got everything else we could lay hands on.”
Presently, in a large touring-car owned by a resident of Oakvale, came
Lieutenant Denmead, Walter, Arthur, and Cooper, and they brought with
them Alec and Blake, whom they had picked up on the way. By unanimous
wish, the scouts lost no time in hurrying to the woods after the other
fire-fighters, and all did yeoman service in putting out the blaze.
Late in the afternoon the fire was finally extinguished. Fortunately the
Walsh farm escaped damage, except for a blaze in a thatched cow-shed,
and the farmer and his wife and son were deeply grateful. Mrs. Walsh
insisted on serving supper to all who had remained until the danger was
over; and when it was generally learned that the prompt arrival of the
motley fire brigade was due to the warning given by the young
signalers,—for, strange to say, the smoke in the woods had not been
considered alarming by the village folk, who were used to camping
parties among the hills,—Lieutenant Denmead’s corps were the guests of
honor at that “spread.”
And such a feast it was! After all the work and excitement, they were as
hungry as wolves, and the simple supper of ham and eggs, crisp fried
potatoes, pancakes and honey, washed down with copious glasses of fresh
milk, was a banquet fit for the gods! Afterward, they were invited to
spend the night in the hayloft of the barn, if they chose; but the Scout
Master thought it best to decline this kindly, apologetic invitation and
to resume the trip back to camp. Accordingly they took leave of the
Walshes, and set forth, with well-filled stomachs and light hearts, glad
of another opportunity to camp out in the open that night.
Before noon of the following day they reached Pioneer Camp and were
hailed as conquering heroes by their friends.
On the return march, Hugh discovered the loss of his note-book. However,
he said nothing to anyone, not even to Billy. The blow was hard to bear,
the accident crushing to his hopes of leadership; but he knew he had
only himself to blame, and he resolved to accept the mischance with a
good grace.