“Pete! Charley! Want to show off your birling for our visitors?”
Wearing big grins, the two husky men fell in behind them.
“Pete and Charley are the camp champs,” Jonas explained.
“What’s birling?” Quiz asked.
“A game the old-timers dreamed up to pass the time on long drives. Two men set themselves on opposite ends of a log and then they try to shake each other off into the drink.”
“Oh, boy!” Jerry said. “That sounds like fun.”
“It is fun,” Jonas agreed. “But it’s also become quite a skillful sport. Wait till you see these boys go at it.”
When they reached the pond, Pete and Charley carefully chose a log about two feet in diameter and twelve feet long from a pile nearby and rolled it into the water. Then they stepped onto opposite ends of the log and Jonas shoved it into the middle of the pond with a long pole. The two big men, hobnailed boots planted firmly in the bark, rode the bobbing log like cats, their thumbs hooked nonchalantly in their belts.
“Looks easy,” Jerry said.
“Don’t kid yourself,” said Quiz.
At a signal from Jonas, the contest began. Pete took the offensive at once. Back-pedaling with short, mincing steps, he sent the log rolling over and over in the water. Faster and faster his feet moved until the log was a spinning blur beneath them. But Charley jogged effortlessly with the spin, never once removing his thumbs from under his belt.
“He must be part fly,” Sandy murmured admiringly.
Suddenly, Pete braked the log with his spikes. Charley hung on nimbly, though he did have to extend his arms for balance. Pete studied his opponent briefly, then tried another approach. Facing the other man, he spread his feet, spikes dug deep into the soft bark. Throwing his weight to the right, he rolled the log to that side, then jerked it back sharply in the opposite direction. Back and forth, back and forth, he went, stirring up waves in the little pond. Charley just crouched low and rolled with the log.
Finally, Pete abandoned this method too, and began to jump up and down on his end of the log until it was lurching up and down in the water like a seesaw. Once Charley’s boot slipped as the log rolled unexpectedly, but he recovered himself neatly.
“I’ve never seen such a display of balance and coordination,” Russ said.
“There’s a hundred tricks,” Jonas told him. “Every birler has his own pet twists and turns and stops. Why I’ve seen my old man spend hours studying a log before a big match.”
“What for?” Sandy said. “They all look pretty much the same to me.”
“Logs are as different as fingerprints. Pine logs are lighter than spruce, for example, and roll much faster. Cedar logs ride higher in the water. Thin bark is a different proposition than thick spongy bark—” He broke off as the two birlers both sent the log spinning madly in the water. “Here now, watch old Charley go to town.”
Faster and faster the log spun; then with a display of skill that set Jonas to clapping his hands, Charley braked the spin and sent the log twirling in the opposite direction before poor Pete could shift his feet. He flipped over backward into the pond with a loud splash.
The boys joined in the round of applause for Charley, as Pete surfaced and good-naturedly shoved the log in to shore, so the winner wouldn’t get his feet wet.
“I’m out of practice,” Pete puffed, as he waded in, dripping wet.
“No excuses,” Jonas laughed. “Anyway, that saves you taking a bath tonight.”
He turned to Jerry. “Still think it’s easy, young fellow?”
“Well-l-l,” Jerry drawled, “I think with a little practice I could do it.”
“No time like the present,” Jonas declared. “How about it, Sandy? You game to take your pal on?”
Sandy grinned. “Sure thing. I don’t care if I do fall in. It’s so darned hot.”
Jonas brought the log in closer to the bank and braced it with his pole. “Okay, boys, climb aboard.”
Sandy bowed with a flourish to the dark-haired boy. “After you, my dear Alphonse.”
Stepping out on the log as cautiously as a tightrope walker on the high wire, Jerry planted his feet firmly, crouching very low.
“Why don’t you sit down and straddle it,” Quiz heckled him.
“No remarks from the gallery,” Jerry grunted. “I’m just getting the feel of it.”
Sandy took his place a trifle more confidently, and Jonas shoved the log into the middle of the pond. Jerry tottered and flailed his arms wildly in the air as the log started to roll beneath him.
“Hey, cut that out! We didn’t get the signal to start yet,” he protested to Sandy.
“I’m not doing a thing.” Sandy was concentrating on keeping his feet moving rhythmically with the motion of the log. In spite of his efforts to slow it down, it kept picking up momentum, largely because of Jerry’s frenzied footwork.
On shore, Quiz, Russ Steele and the loggers were doubled up with laughter. Jonas gasped, “He looks like a clown I saw at a circus running on a treadmill with a dog hanging onto the seat of his pants.”
The thought was too much for Sandy. Choking hysterically, he went headfirst into the pond. But still Jerry’s mad marathon went on. “How do you stop this thing?” he shouted.
“Just turn off your ignition,” Charley joked.
The tears were rolling down Pete’s face. “I ain’t seen a birler like that boy in all my days. He’d be a sensation at the fall festival.”
“No use,” Jerry screamed desperately. “I’m going to bail out before it’s too late.” Holding his nose he ran off the end of the log into thin air. His legs were still driving like pistons as the water closed over him.
When the boys waded ashore, Jerry grinned sheepishly at the loggers. “I was doing great till my accelerator got stuck.”
Jonas patted him on the back. “You’re all right, Jerry. Best show I’ve seen all year.”
Walking up the hill, Jonas asked Russ, “How long will you be with us?”
“Oh, I guess we’ll be heading back to Red Lake tomorrow morning.”
“Better follow the river south as far as you can,” Jonas cautioned him. “It wouldn’t do to get caught in the deep woods if a fire gets started.”
By this time the sun had sunk below the trees, and the loggers were boarding the trucks for the ride back to camp. Russ and Quiz rode back with Jonas in the cab of the lead truck, while Sandy and Jerry piled in the one behind it.
“Do you fellows live in the woods all year?” Sandy asked the driver.
“Most of us single men do,” the driver told him. “It saves board money living in the company barracks and eating three squares in the mess hall. A few of the married boys live in town. We got a couple of little towns within a comfortable distance. Some weekends we go in and stay at a rooming house.”
“Don’t you ever get to the big city?” Jerry asked wonderingly.
“Maybe once a year, we go to Duluth.” He began to laugh uproariously. “It usually takes us another year to get over a spree like that.”
Back at camp, Russ Steele spoke earnestly with Jonas Driscoll off to one side. Then he went into the office alone and closed the door behind him. The foreman walked over to where the boys were throwing sticks for the two dogs to fetch and told Sandy that his uncle was making an important phone call.
“He’ll be a while,” he said. “Why don’t you boys come down to my shack and wash up before supper?”
Sandy looked meaningfully at Jerry and Quiz. “You guys go ahead with Jonas. I’ll be along in a few minutes.”
As soon as they were out of sight, Sandy went over and sat down on the steps of the office. Prince and Bruce camped at his feet, wagging their tails and pleading with their eyes for more play. Finally Sandy gave in and lobbed a few more sticks for them. After about ten minutes, Russ Steele came out of the office. He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he almost stumbled over his nephew.
“Sorry,” he apologized. “I didn’t see you.”
Sandy nodded sympathetically. “Still no news?”
“Not a trace. It begins to look more and more as if they ditched the bomb over this area. Search teams are working in toward us methodically from both Lake Superior and Manitoba where the plane crashed. We’ll just have to do what we can until reinforcements arrive.”
To the west heat lightning lit up the sky like a monster flash bulb. Sandy shivered as they walked slowly in the direction of the foreman’s cottage. The air seemed to be buzzing with electricity.
After breakfast the next morning, Russ Steele and the boys said goodbye to Jonas Driscoll and started back in the direction of Red Lake. Once again they fanned out at 1500-foot intervals, as soon as they were out of sight of the logging camp.
“It seems like such a waste of time,” Jerry complained. “We’re never going to find that bomb, just four guys in a big woods like this.”
“Most likely we won’t,” Russ admitted. “Our team is only a small cog in the vast search machinery, but the ultimate success of the operation depends on how well each small team does its job. The military doesn’t expect us to march straight to where the bomb is and say, ‘Here it is, fellows!’ What they do expect is for us to be able to say with certainty where the bomb isnotlying. Gradually, by a process of elimination, they’ll be able to pinpoint its exact location.”
The trek south was just as unrewarding as the trek north. They covered twenty-five miles by dusk, when they made camp and cooked a simple supper of beans and bacon. The boys were so weary that they sacked in before it was completely dark. Russ Steele sat outside awhile smoking his pipe and watching the moon climb into the cloudless heavens.
In the early afternoon of the following day, they arrived back at the ranger station. Dick Fellows signaled them with a flashing mirror from the tower when they were still a half mile away. By the time they arrived, he had a pitcher of iced tea frosting on the table.
“No luck,” he said flatly, as soon as he saw their faces.
Russ shook his head. “How about yourself? Still no rain in sight?”
The ranger sighed. “Just got the forecast before you got here. Fair and hot for the rest of the week. I’ve been on twenty-four-hour duty for the past two days. Headquarters has declared a state of emergency.”
“Why don’t you grab a couple of hours’ sleep?” Sandy suggested. “We’ll keep a careful watch for you.”
“Thanks,” Dick said, “maybe I will. I’ve been sleeping with one eye open these nights, and one ear on the alarm clock. How long are you fellows going to stay around?”
“Until tomorrow morning,” Russ told him.
“We’ll cover the ground between here and Red Lake next trip.”
It was 2:30P.M.Dick Fellows had been asleep for about an hour. Quiz and Jerry had left to take a bath in a nearby stream. Russ Steele was relaxing in the big easy chair with his pipe and a book from the ranger’s library. Sandy was on watch. Standing at the north window, he swept the horizon from east to west with a pair of binoculars. Three-quarters of the way across, he stopped and trained them down on a tall trunk that stood out bleak and spare against the thick foliage of the other trees. With a frown, he dropped the glasses and blinked his eyes, squinting through the distant haze.
“Uncle Russ,” he said steadily, “it’s probably an illusion, but I think I see smoke.”
Russ Steele rose quickly, dumping the book off his lap onto the floor. “Where?” he asked tensely, coming to the window.
Sandy passed the binoculars to him. “That big snag due north-northwest.” While his uncle was studying the location, Sandy went back to the table and picked up a pair of sunglasses specially treated to penetrate haze. “Well, what do you think?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” Russ said tightly. “It could be heat waves shimmering through the ground haze.” He turned to look at the sleeping figure of the ranger on the bunk. “In any case, I think it rates the attention of an expert. Better wake Dick.”
Dick Fellows sat up promptly the instant Sandy’s hand touched his shoulder. “Trouble?” he asked grimly. He was at the window focusing the binoculars before Sandy had finished explaining. After a brief look, he put down the binoculars and studied the trouble spot through the haze glasses.
Then he announced matter-of-factly: “Smoke, all right. Well, we’ve got ourselves a fire.”
His voice sounded almost relieved. The waiting and the anxiety were over now, at least. The enemy was out in the open—something tangible you could see and fight.
Immediately, the ranger made a compass reading. Then he took a fix on the smoking tree with an Osborne fire finder, an instrument roughly resembling a sextant.
“The fire finder measures both horizontal and vertical angles,” he explained to Sandy. “If we know the height of the fire tower and the angle of the fire with respect to the top of the tower, it’s a relatively easy matter to locate the site on a good topographical map.”
“What’s a topographical map?” Sandy asked.
“A map that charts the surface features of the terrain,” Dick said. He went back to the table and made some rapid calculations on a pad, stopping occasionally to measure off distances and angles on the big map spread out before him. At last he stuck a red pin at an X that marked the intersection of two lines. “That’s where she is,” he said with finality. “Now I’ll radio the news in to headquarters. They’ll try and get a sighting from another tower and double-check my fix on the fire.”
“What do we do in the meantime?” Russ Steele asked anxiously. Sandy could see that, underneath the heavy tan, his uncle was pale. He had a flitting mental image of the missing A-bomb lying in some desolate part of the forest with flames licking in all around it, and he felt the short hairs at the base of his skull bristle.
“I’ll go straight to the fire and see what I can do until a crew shows up,” the ranger said.
“You’ve got yourself a crew,” Russ volunteered. “What can we do to help?”
Dick Fellows smiled gratefully. “That’s wonderful. I’ve got plenty of tools stored out in the shed. With any luck, maybe we can get it under control before it spreads too far.”
At that moment, they heard Prince barking at the foot of the tower and footsteps vibrating on the metal steps. “That must be Quiz and Jerry,” Sandy said. He ran to the door, opened it and called down. “Stay where you are. We’ll be right down. We’re going to fight a fire.”
Within fifteen minutes, the five of them were double-timing it through the woods, loaded down with long-handled shovels, burlap sacks, fire swatters and strange-looking implements that the boys had never seen before. One resembled a giant fly swatter; another, the Pulaski tool, was a combination ax and grub hoe. They had covered, perhaps, ten miles, when Prince, who had gone running far ahead, began to yelp excitedly. Before they even sighted the flames, they could hear the crackle and roar of a formidable blaze.
Dick Fellows ran his tongue nervously over dry lips. “Not much smoke. She had a good start before we spotted her.”
In spite of the ranger’s words, Sandy felt a wave of relief when they finally reached the fire. It didn’t look nearly as bad as he had expected it to be. At most, it ranged over a quarter of an acre, blazing lazily in the surface litter that covered the forest floor.
“Gee, it’s just a little brush fire.” Jerry echoed his friend’s sentiments.
“So far,” the ranger said grimly. “But all it will take is a little breeze—” He left the thought unfinished, as without warning a dead tree that stood in the center of the fire, blackened and smoldering, burst into flame like a torch. The rotten wood gave off great flaming sparks that were carried high into the air by the updraft. Sandy traced the journey of one glowing ember as it plummeted down like a shooting star into the woods about a half mile away.
“That could mean more trouble,” the ranger said. “Before you know it, you have a half dozen spot fires burning in addition to the one you’re fighting. I’ll have a look over in that direction later on. The first thing we’re going to do is to build a fire line across the head of the fire; I’d say maybe fifteen feet in front of it.”
Quiz nodded. “The head of the fire is determined by the direction in which it’s spreading the fastest. Right?”
“Right. All fires have a roughly circular shape to begin with. But depending on air currents, slope of the terrain and available fuel, they soon take on direction. Usually they assume an elliptical shape, sort of like an egg, with the fat part of the egg representing the head. We always attack the head first—stop the advance. Then we can work down the flanks to the rear.
“Our fire line will be about one hundred feet long. I’d say this particular fire calls for a trench about two feet wide through the duff and litter; we’ve got to get down to mineral soil. Everything inflammable must be cleared off this path. Bushes or low-hanging branches that the flames can reach have to be removed or avoided.”
At this point, he stopped talking to lay out the fire line, tracing its path through the forest with a hoe. It was a zigzag route which detoured around bushes that were too large to be uprooted and low-hanging tree branches. “We avoid anything that would give the flames a chance to leap the fire line,” Dick explained.
As soon as the boundaries were clearly defined, he distributed the tools and assigned specific jobs to everyone. Russell Steele showed as much respect for the young ranger as any enlisted man had ever accorded a general. Sandy and Jerry worked with the hoes, breaking the first ground. Their job consisted mainly in clearing a swath through the loose litter, shoving it in toward the advancing flames.
Dick Fellows and Russ Steele came in back of them with Pulaski tools, hacking out stubborn roots and small shrubs and cutting deeper into the duff. Quiz brought up the rear with a shovel, scooping up loose matter that had tumbled back into the ditch and sluicing a light layer of soil across the ground in front of the line. They worked intently, without speaking, to conserve their wind; and the line grew rapidly. Still, the fire was within two feet of the barrier when Quiz sent the last shovel of dirt rattling into the waist-high flames.
The heat was searing, and their lobster-red faces streamed with perspiration. Their clothing was soaked and streaked with dirt. Jerry and Quiz staggered back from the line and collapsed on the ground.
The ranger waved Sandy and his uncle back too. “Better take a breather,” he warned them. “The worst is yet to come.” He took a long drink, then emptied the rest of his canteen over his head.
After a five-minute break, Dick passed out the long-handled beaters to the three boys. He handed Russ Steele a burlap bag soaked in water. “We’ll do the best we can with these. The idea is to patrol the line and keep a sharp watch for embers that fly over it.”
They stationed themselves at 25-foot intervals, with Russ and Dick each holding down an end of the line. The flames reached the edge of the break and leaned hungrily across it.
Sandy brought the flat of his rubber beater down on a spark that kindled on his side of the line. “It gives me the creeps the way the fire seems to be reaching out for you,” he yelled to Jerry. “It’s almost as if it was alive.”
Jerry was too busy swatting to answer him. Down at one end of the line, Dick tossed aside his smoking burlap sack and grabbed a shovel. With horror, Sandy saw a thin trail of fire race along the edge of the ditch, skirt the end and blaze up in a patch of grass around the ranger’s legs. Sandy dashed down to attack the breach with Dick, and together they extinguished the flames and the long fuse of burning grass that had kindled it.
“Thanks,” Dick gasped, as Sandy raced back to beat at a fiery tongue that was licking at the brush in his sector.
For at least a half hour they battled the tenacious foe, and then the flames began to subside, their frantic efforts to leap the line growing more and more feeble.
At last Dick Fellows announced hesitantly, “Looks like we have her, men.”
The boys let out a lusty cheer, and Jerry did a comical little waltz with his long beater. But their exultation was short-lived. For some time, no one had paid much attention to the dead tree in the center of the burned-out area, now a solid pillar of fire reaching into the sky. The ranger had been relieved to note that it stood a safe distance apart from the other trees, and he decided that its chief hazard lay in the sparks that kept rising intermittently from it. Then disaster struck.
Crumbling from decay and the ravages of termites, and further weakened by the flames, the towering snag unexpectedly gave way at the base. As the fire fighters stared in hypnotic fascination, the tree toppled in slow motion toward a thick cluster of pines on the left flank of the fire. It went crashing down into their midst, sending a spray of sparks and flame over the thick, dry foliage. Instantly the crowns of the trees erupted simultaneously in a huge balloon of flame with a noise like an exploding bomb. A blast of red-hot air singed Sandy’s hair and eyelashes and sent him stumbling backward with his hands over his face. Rejuvenated, the front of the fire leaped the barrier and blazed up beyond control at a dozen separate points.
“She’s crowned!” the ranger yelled in despair. “That snag did it. The surface fire had heated the foliage to the point of combustion and it was just like touching a match to a gas jet.”
Sandy was aware of a strange rustling in the trees overhead. “What’s that?” he asked the ranger. “It can’t be wind.”
“It’s wind all right,” Dick told him. “Once these fires get really going, they make their own wind.”
“It’s simple,” Quiz explained. “You can even feel it standing near a big bonfire. The updraft of hot air creates a partial vacuum over the fire area, sucking in cool air from all around it.”
“What do we do now?” Russ demanded.
The ranger pointed to the crown fire, which was spreading from tree to tree fairly rapidly. “Only thing to do is get out of here. We don’t want to get caught if this thing really takes off. There’s a firebreak about one mile back, where we can wait for reinforcements.”
He glanced up at the sky, and for the first time Sandy was aware that a helicopter and a small observation plane were circling the area. “They should be rallying a gang up there within a few hours,” Dick said.
“What’s a firebreak, Dick?” Quiz asked.
“A king-sized fire line similar to the one we made. It can be anywhere from ten feet to a hundred feet wide. Nowadays critical areas are interlaced with firebreaks, just in case. The one we’re heading for is a road really; the idea is to take advantage of natural defenses as much as possible when planning firebreaks—roads, rivers, clearings, railroad right of ways.”
As they followed the ranger at a slow trot in the direction of the road, Prince leaped out from behind a bush and fell in beside Russ.
“I was beginning to wonder what had happened to him,” Sandy said.
“Animals are deathly afraid of fire,” Russ said. “I’m surprised he isn’t on his way back to Red Lake.”
Jerry snorted. “Some hero! And I thought dogs were supposed to be fearless.”
Russ looked at Jerry solemnly. “Only fools are fearless. I can tell you I’m plenty scared right now—for more reasons than one.”
By the time they reached the firebreak, men and trucks were streaming down the dirt road from both directions; rangers and volunteers from the logging camps and small towns in the area.
“Do we sit back here like soldiers in trenches and wait for the fire to come to us?” Sandy wanted to know.
Dick Fellows shook his head. “It’s not likely. That’s too much timber to give up without a fight. Most likely the fire boss will try and contain the fire within some area much closer to the front. We’ll construct another fire line—a lot bigger than the one we made, of course—and backfire from that, probably.”
“Backfire?” Jerry looked puzzled.
“Yes, light more fires all along that line.” He had to smile at the boy’s incredulous stare. “Fires that we know we can control. It’s the only way to stop a running crown fire. A running fire picks up a lot of momentum—you saw how those flames jumped our line. The idea is to light the backfires right on the edge of your fire line so that they’ll burn in the opposite direction, toward the main fire. Actually, the air currents created by a big blaze tend to draw in the smaller backfires. Under ideal conditions, the two fires meet head-on and die because all the fuel has been exhausted.”
“That’s a fascinating image,” Russ said. “Like two greedy monsters destroying each other.”
“Now I know where they got that old saying about fighting fire with fire,” Sandy said.
“That’s right,” the ranger acknowledged. “It’s an old trick that goes back earlier than the Christian era. Tricky business, though, and you have to have a gang that knows what it’s doing every second. If anything goes wrong, the backfire may get out of control and leap the fire line itself.”
He looked up as a tall gray-haired man in riding breeches and high boots got out of a truck on the far side of the road and hailed him.
“Dick Fellows! How does it look?” the tall man came across and joined them.
“Hi, Paul! Not too good. We thought we had her for a time. Then everything burst loose.”
He introduced Paul Landers, the district ranger chief, to Russ Steele and the boys, describing their unsuccessful effort to stop the fire before it crowned.
Landers shook his head grimly. “Nice try, anyway, Dick. And many thanks to you, General Steele, and the boys, for lending a hand.”
Russ smiled. “Anything else we can do? We’re still available.”
The fire boss took off his ranger hat and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “Plenty to do, all right, General. Soon as they get my headquarters tent set up over there, we’ll be having a meeting of crew chiefs. I’d welcome it if you’d sit in. You ever had any experience fighting fires? Before today, I mean?”
“I’m a greenhorn,” Russ admitted. “Just like the boys.”
“But we’re learning fast,” Jerry chimed in.
Landers laughed. “Good. That tent’s up now. Come along and I’ll show you how we map out our battle strategy.” He glanced at Russ. “You’re going to find, General, that a forest fire can be as diabolical and treacherous as any human enemy you ever fought.”
“I’m beginning to suspect that already,” Russ said somberly.
Inside the big pyramidal tent, technicians were installing short-wave radio equipment, electric lights and telephones. On a large square table in the center of the tent, a topographical map was spread out; alongside it was a vivid aerial photograph of the same region.
Landers indicated a section on the map shaded in red pencil. “This represents the burned-out area, as it stands at this time. Roughly, the front is about twelve hundred feet across, and she’s spreading fast.”
Dick Fellows whistled. “I’ll say she’s spreading fast. I don’t figure it was more than a hundred feet when we pulled out.”
The fire boss bent over the map and rested both elbows on the table. “She’s got all the makings of a Class E fire all right.”
“What’s a Class E fire?” Sandy asked.
“Forest fires are rated in five classes, A,B,C,D, and E, according to the size of the burned-out area,” Landers explained. “Class E is three hundred acres and up. This one could be a first-rate Class E if it gets away from us. So we can’t afford to take chances.”
He studied the map thoughtfully. “The way I see it we’ve got to give her plenty of room. If we can hold her down to two hundred acres, I’ll be plenty satisfied.” He ran his finger along a ridge that ran off diagonally to the road in a northeast direction on the right flank of the fire. Then he penciled anXat the foot of the ridge directly in line with the head of the fire.
“Our best chance is to start backfiring here, about a half mile due east. That ridge is a natural firebreak because it’s mostly rock with only scrubby vegetation. It won’t take more than a skeleton crew to work that side.”
He addressed two of the gang bosses: “Harry and Ed, you boys take ten men and a bulldozer and start setting things up on that ridge. A three-thousand-foot line should do it.”
Now from the foot of the ridge, he drew a line extending in a southeast direction, so that between them they formed an angled pocket into which the fire was advancing. “We’ll backfire for another three thousand feet on this line. The rest of you gang bosses will round up your men and get to work on that immediately.”
He singled out Dick Fellows. “Dick, you and your three young friends can help out on the south line, if you will, as fire scouts. General Steele, I’d appreciate it if you would help me get things organized here.”
The boys followed Ranger Fellows out of the tent as the gang bosses crowded around the table for a question-and-answer session with the fire boss and to get a final briefing. Sandy was surprised to see that dusk was settling over the forest. He looked at his wrist watch and saw that almost five hours had passed since he had spotted the first thin swirl of smoke from the fire tower. To the west an enormous golden cloud hung over the trees like a halo.
“Doesn’t that look beautiful?” Jerry said.
“Deadly beauty,” the ranger told him, explaining that it was the last rays of sunlight slanting up from below the horizon on the screen of smoke drifting up from the forest fire.
He led them over to the mess tent, where cooks were doling out steaming-hot suppers to the fire fighters from big insulated containers. “Eat hearty, men,” he said wryly as they took their places on line. “We have a long night ahead of us.”
“How can anyone work in these woods at night?” Sandy said. “It gets so dark you can’t see your hand in front of your face.”
“It’s not easy,” the ranger admitted. “Normally, Landers would wait until daylight to tackle most fires. The rate of spread drops sharply through the night, then picks up again when the sun rises. Dawn and early morning are generally the best hours to work. But conditions being what they are—this drought and all—the chief wants us to keep on top of it every minute. It won’t be any picnic, though, building that south fire line at night, even if they mount auxiliary spotlights on the trucks and tractors.”
“What gives with this fire scout business?” Jerry wanted to know. “What do we do?”
“Run messages up and down the line so that headquarters can keep in touch with the progress on all sectors at all times,” Dick explained. “I’ll be stationed at the junction of the north and south lines with a walkie-talkie radio. You fellows will relay reports from the gang bosses in to me, and I’ll call them in to the chief.” He grinned. “You’re going to be mighty leg-weary before this is over.”
At the head of the serving table, a grizzled old man wearing a greasy undershirt handed them each a tin plate and a knife and spoon. In quick succession, Sandy received a ladle of hash, a ladle of cole slaw and a slab of bread—at least two inches thick—slapped on top of it all. The last man on the serving line dipped a tin mug expertly into a galvanized can filled with iced tea and sent him on his way. Sandy had intended to ask for something to eat for Prince, but then he saw that the big Doberman was squatting patiently before the entrance of the headquarters tent, waiting for Russ Steele.
When they had finished eating, they scraped their platters clean and dropped them in a tub of soapy, boiling water to one side of the mess tent.
It was almost dark now, but the area was bright in the glare of spotlights that had been rigged up to the heavy power line strung from poles at the side of the road. Dick Fellows stopped briefly at headquarters to pick up his walkie-talkie radio, and then they hitched a ride on a jeep truck. They were part of a long caravan of vehicles moving slowly through the woods toward the foot of the ridge where the fire line would be anchored. The boys could scarcely believe that a road had been cut through the timber in such a short period of time. True, it was rutted, and bristled with stumps, and twisted considerably to avoid the biggest trees, but it was quite an accomplishment nevertheless.
“It’s magic,” Jerry exclaimed. “How did they do it?”
“Bulldozer magic,” the ranger said, pointing to the broken and uprooted trees littering the sides of the road. “We even have some brush-breaker trucks that can plow through a grove of trees up to six inches in diameter as if they were matchsticks.”
The caravan ground to a halt before they reached the foot of the ridge, so the dozers and tractors could complete a huge clearing where the vehicles and equipment could assemble. To Sandy, it was a scene of immense confusion and noise. It seemed to him that the gang bosses were trying to outshout each other; the men were getting in each other’s way; and the trucks and tractors were rumbling about aimlessly.
“What a mess!” Jerry groaned.
The ranger grinned. “It just looks that way. This is as smooth an operation as I’ve ever seen. Wait till they get rolling.”
And in no time at all men and machines were peeling off in orderly fashion to the right and left; up the ridge to the northeast; and southwest through the forest, clearing a strip through the trees the width of two bulldozers.
Behind the dozers came the plows, rooting up the thick bed of duff on the forest floor; then the graders, piling up soil and sand in a high bank against the advancing flames. Working by the light of big spots mounted on trucks, agile volunteers—mainly high riggers from the lumber camps—climbed the trees along the edge of the growing line, lopping off low branches that hung across into the danger area.
“Just to make sure our backfires don’t backfire on us,” Dick Fellows said wryly.
The young ranger set up his command post in the headlights of a jeep; it consisted of a folding table, canvas chair and the walkie-talkie. Quiz was intrigued by the little battery-operated receiver-transmitter. Dick pulled the rod antennae out of the top of the little oblong case until they were fully extended, and flipped the switch. There was a crackle of static and a variety of other interference before he succeeded in getting through to Fire Boss Landers at headquarters. Reception was poor and he kept his head bent close to the instrument. The boys were only able to catch snatches of the conversation. Finally he signed off and looked up.
“The chief just received a report from air observation. She’s progressing pretty much according to type. About three-quarters of a mile wide at the head, and covering roughly one hundred acres. There’s just enough wind to benefit us—keep the fire moving due east and restricting the spread at the rear. Unless the picture alters radically before morning, we’ve got her licked.”
“That’s great!” Sandy said.
Quiz glanced over the treetops at the faint reddish glow in the sky to the west. “It’s not nearly so bright over that way now.”
“You’re right,” the ranger agreed. “That’s because the crown fire has died out. It’s strictly a surface fire now. Of course if we get another scorcher tomorrow, she’ll likely flare up again.”
Jerry was peering anxiously through the thick forest in front of them. “You can just about see the flames now flickering over there.”
“It’s possible,” Dick admitted. “She’s only about a quarter of a mile off now.” Ruefully, he surveyed the tall, stately pines in the grove opposite them. “It breaks my heart to think we’re going to have to sacrifice all that timber.”
“When do we go to work?” Sandy asked him.
“Right now. The chief wants to know how things are progressing all the way down the line and he wants a thorough report on the contour of the fire front. Sandy, suppose you work the ridge, and Jerry and Quiz can take the south line. Find the gang bosses and ask them how things are shaping up in their sectors.”
Sandy climbed a steep rocky incline at the right of the clearing to the top of the ridge. From the crest, which was nearly forty feet higher than any of the surrounding terrain, he had an unrestricted view along the full length of the ridge. A full moon sitting on the very rim of the horizon lit up the scene like a big orange bulb. It was obvious now why Fire Boss Landers had chosen this site to construct the fire line. It was a natural barrier running straight as an arrow to the northwest, at least a mile long from tip to tip. Its rocky slopes, barren except for grass and stunted shrubs, swept down about a hundred feet on each side to the edge of the woods. The ridge was a great scar in the rich Minnesota earth left by some passing glacier millions of years ago.
Halfway along the ridge, Sandy could see the dozers rumbling back and forth over the crest, their headlights gleaming like the eyes of prehistoric monsters. He started toward them at a dogtrot.
When he reached the nearest gang, a big man who seemed to be directing the operation swung his flashlight full on Sandy’s face. “Hi, son, what’s up?”
Sandy explained that he was scouting for Ranger Fellows.
“I’m Ed Macauley,” the gang boss introduced himself. “Everything looks pretty good from here. We’re clearing a strip about ten feet wide just below the crest on the far side here. We’ll start our backfires down there in that tall grass at the edge of the woods. Then for good measure we’ll light another one along the top of the ridge.”
Sandy was puzzled. “One thing I don’t understand. Why are you making the fire line on the slope away from the fire?”
Macauley grinned. “Because fire burns a lot faster and picks up more momentum going uphill than it does going downhill.” To illustrate, he took a long wooden match out of his pocket and lit it with his thumbnail. When he tilted the lit end down, the flame blazed up brightly, licking greedily at the unburned stem. Then he tilted the end up and the flame changed direction and flickered feebly at the blackened stub and finally died out. “See, there’s less chance of the fire jumping our line if it’s burning downhill.”
Suddenly he frowned and poked his nose into the air like a scenting hound. “Hey, you feel that?” He wet his forefinger in his mouth and held it up.
At that moment Sandy was aware of a cool, gentle breeze on the left side of his face. When Macauley spoke, his voice was tight as a bowstring.
“Wind’s picking up, and it seems to be swinging around to the southwest. That could mean the fire will veer smack into this here ridge.... Hey, you better relay that news back to the fire boss fast. Maybe they’re just wasting their time on that south line.”
“Won’t they realize the wind’s shifting?” Sandy asked.
“Maybe not. On account of the elevation here, we’d feel it first.”
Macauley handed the boy his flashlight. “Here, better take this so you don’t stumble in the dark. And make it snappy.”
Jerry had already returned with a report from the south line when Sandy stumbled into the bright lights of the clearing. Jerry was sprawled out on the grass at the command post while the ranger phoned his information into headquarters. Sandy interrupted Dick Fellows excitedly to announce the unexpected wind shift. And Dick was even more excited as he told Paul Landers about it.