DEADLY FANGS
Helen looked at her companion through smiling, quizzical eyes.
“Well, what do you make of that?” she asked.
“I’m a little bit dizzy, but I guess Mr. Fenstow meant what he said. Do you suppose I can really turn out an acceptable story for a western picture?” Janet turned and shot the question squarely at Helen.
“I’m sure you can. That is,” she amended, “if you don’t let the thought of it scare you.”
“I’ll give it a lot of time and thought before I start writing the story.”
“There isn’t much time,” warned Helen, and Janet knew that her companion was right.
Ten days—sometimes it seemed like an endless length of time; then again it vanished like magic and she had a feeling that this might be the case.
Some members of the company left the bus and walked around to stretch their legs; the others remained quietly in their seats, only a few of them talking for they were glad the strain of making the picture was at an end.
Janet sniffed the late afternoon air. There seemed to be a faint odor of smoke, but she decided some of the men in the company must be smoking nearby.
The heat abated somewhat as they waited for the driver to repair the engine and a sharp breeze swept down out of the hills sending little swirls of dust dancing along the winding road ahead of them.
Helen leaned close to her companion.
“Smell smoke?” she asked.
“Not now, but I thought I did a few minutes ago,” replied Janet.
“I’m sure I can now,” went on Helen, sniffing intently.
Janet thought she caught another whiff of smoke, but she couldn’t be sure.
Curt Newsom, who had been trying to help repair the engine, came back along the bus. His face was smudged with grime and dirt and his hands were covered with grease. He raised one of them and motioned for Janet and Helen to join him. The girls left their seats and walked down the bus, Curt meeting them at the doorway.
“Come on,” he said sharply and in a manner that was little like his own.
He strode away through the dry grass, which crackled like tinder under his boots. He was a good fifty yards away from the bus and far beyond earshot when he stopped and faced the girls.
“It will be hours before that bus can be repaired,” he told them. “Someone will have to go back to the ranch or the nearest village and phone for another vehicle to come out from the city.”
The freshening breeze stirred up a cloud of dust which enveloped them for a moment. Curt sneezed heavily and then sniffed.
“Smell anything?” There was desperate intentness in his question.
Janet and Helen wrinkled their noses and sniffed eagerly.
Helen shook her head.
“Not now, but a while ago I thought I smelled smoke.”
“So did I,” added Janet. “It was kind of like tobacco smoke and then it wasn’t.”
Curt shook his head. “I’m afraid it isn’t tobacco smoke. I’ve been getting whiffs of it right along. Smells like a brush fire to me, but I can’t locate any sign of smoke.”
“What do you mean by brush fire?” asked Janet.
Curt looked at her sharply and then his eyes swept the rugged countryside where the sparse grass was brown and the brush as brittle as glass.
“It’s like a prairie fire—only worse. It’s even worse than a forest fire. It spreads more rapidly. Once a fire gets started in this dry, combustible stuff, it’s almost impossible to stop it. Either a good rain comes along or the blamed thing just burns itself out.”
“But I should think you could dodge a brush fire,” put in Helen.
“Maybe you could if you knew which way it was going to jump. But it moves almost like lightning and it’s on you before you know it.”
The cowboy star cast an anxious eye over the rolling hills, but there was no sign of smoke, no spear of flame to flash a warning of impending trouble.
“Keep your nose busy and your eyes and ears on the job. You might even stir around in the hills a bit. If you see anything that looks like it might spell trouble, let me know. I’m going back to try and help the driver. We’ll give you plenty of time to get back before we start on if we just happen to find the trouble.”
Curt, his spurs jingling musically, strode away, and Janet and Helen watched him go with mingled feelings. His words had aroused a very definite sense of alarm in their minds and they were a little white as they faced each other.
“I’m sure I smell smoke now,” said Helen, sniffing intently. Janet did likewise, but she couldn’t be sure, and the breeze was getting sharper.
“We’ll scout around these hills. Let’s try that one,” Janet pointed to a ragged outcropping of rock that towered above the rest.
“It’s going to be hard to climb,” cautioned Helen.
“I know, but once we’re on top we’ll be able to see all over this country. If there’s any sign of a brush fire, we’ll be able to see it from there.”
“I suppose you’re right. Wish I had left my heavy boots on. These shoes aren’t made for this kind of walking,” and Helen looked down at the low-heeled, comfortable oxfords she wore. They were all right for street wear, but when it came to climbing about over thin, rocky soil, they provided only a minimum of protection.
The outcropping Janet had selected was even steeper than they had anticipated and as they climbed, the outline of the bus in the valley became smaller. They stopped several times to rest and on the last occasion Janet sat down on a flat, sun-baked rock. There was a certain fetid odor about it but she thought nothing of it until Helen, who was about to sit down beside her, screamed.
Without thinking and so swiftly it must have been a reflex action, she hurled herself away from the rock.
She dropped in a twisting, rolling fall and as she turned she glimpsed a venomous head with lashing fangs which flashed out once from the rock and then disappeared.
THE SMOKY MENACE
Janet fell heavily, turning over several times before she finally came to rest against a clump of dry brush.
Helen was at her side almost instantly, her face drawn and tense.
“Did it strike you?” she asked, deep anxiety marking her words.
Janet, still dazed by the shock of hurling herself to the ground, looked up and managed a wan smile. She shook her head and with Helen giving her a hand, got to her feet.
“No, I’m all right. Just scared a little. It was so sudden.”
“The snake was coiled up on the back of the rock. I saw it just as you sat down. For a second I was speechless; then I seemed to explode into a scream,” explained Helen.
“It’s a good thing for me that you did,” said Janet. “I don’t think the snake missed it more than inches. We’d better get some stout clubs if we’re going to do any more climbing around these rocks.”
“One thing, we’re not going to sit down on any of them,” declared Helen, who was watching the pile of rocks with open suspicion. There was still that fetid smell in the air, but no sign of any snakes.
They looked about for sticks which could be used for clubs and Helen found several sizeable sticks which would serve that purpose.
The incident had unnerved them more than they cared to confess and they sat down to rest on the sandy soil, taking care that nothing was near them which would conceal a snake.
The afternoon deepened and the sun was about to sink over the western hills when they roused themselves and started on toward the summit of the promontory they had been climbing.
Janet stopped and sniffed the air. The odor of smoke seemed stronger now, yet there was no visible sign of it.
Helen also smelled it, for the wind, if anything, was sharper now.
“If there’s a fire burning somewhere near here, it might be bad for us,” she said. “This dry grass and underbrush would burn like tinder.”
“That’s what Curt fears,” added Janet.
They stopped to rest once more before they started the final ascent to the rocky outcropping from which they hoped to be able to survey the entire surrounding country.
As they started up the final slope, the smell of the smoke became stronger. Looking back into the valley where the bus was stalled, Janet could see the men in the company all grouped around the front end. It was evident that the trouble had not been repaired. Some distance from the bus a lone figure was striding along the trail, evidently bound for the nearest ranch or village where he could telephone for another bus and a repair crew.
They toiled up the last few yards to the summit of the promontory and reached it only to drop down in an open space, gasping for breath, for the last part of the climb had been arduous.
A sharp cry from Helen drew Janet’s attention away from the bus, which now seemed far down in the valley.
“There’s fire burning in that further valley,” cried Helen, an involuntary note of alarm in her voice.
Janet turned quickly and gazed in the direction Helen was pointing. Her companion was right. There was fire in one of the distant valleys. From their elevation they could see a low, creeping wave of smoke shot through with an occasional tongue of flame.
The wind, riffling past them now, was sweeping the fire in their direction at a steady pace, but it was at least two miles away, perhaps even further, estimated Janet.
“Does it look serious?” asked Helen.
“I should say it does,” replied Janet quickly. “One of us must get back to the bus at once and warn Curt. This is what he’s feared.”
“I’ll stay,” said Helen, but Janet noted that her companion’s face paled at the thought of staying on top of the ridge and watching the fire sweep toward her.
“No you won’t. If there’s any staying to be done up here, I’ll be the one,” decided Janet. “Besides, I can run faster than you and your shoes are in no condition to go racing over this rough ground. You start down now and tell Curt exactly what’s happening. Tell him the fire is moving steadily in our direction and I can’t see that anyone is in front of it attempting to beat it out or to build barriers to halt it.”
“But I hate to leave you here alone,” protested Helen.
“Never mind that. You get back to the bus. Hurry!” There was an anxious note of appeal in Janet’s last words and Helen flung down the stick she had been carrying and started back down the slope.
Janet watched her for a time as she darted around outcroppings of rock. Then she turned and gazed at the low wall of smoke which was being whipped along by the wind.
From that distance it was hard to imagine that the advancing smoke and fire could be such a deadly thing—that it could lay waste to everything in its path, leaving, where it had passed, only a sear and desolate landscape.
The wind seemed to be strengthening with the passing of each minute. The crest of the advancing fire topped the ridge of another valley and started down the near slope, but it was still better than a mile and a half away. Occasionally a jet of flame rose higher than the others, as though some madman had tossed a torch high into the air at his exhilaration over the destruction the flames were causing.
The afternoon was waning rapidly and in the valleys between Janet and the flames the light was fading. She turned and gazed back down the long slope. Helen was almost at the bus, making every effort at speed and Janet felt sorry for her for she knew Helen must be suffering intense pain from her too-thin shoes for the rocks would bruise her feet badly.
Janet saw Helen reach the bus and the men turned their attention from the stalled motor to the newcomer. Janet thought she could distinguish Curt Newsom looming above the others but she couldn’t be sure.
In less than a minute a solitary figure detached itself from the group around the bus and started up the slope toward Janet. From the long stride and the graceful carriage of the body she knew it was the cowboy star, coming up to get a first-hand glimpse of the advancing fire.
Someone down at the bus turned on the headlights, and twin beams of light flashed through the gathering purple of the evening.
Janet heard a scurrying up the other slope and a jack rabbit, scenting the danger of the approaching wall of smoke and fire, dashed past her. She knew that later there would be an onrush of the smaller animals seeking to evade the danger. But for some reason Janet felt strangely calm.
The fire was still more than a mile away. True, it was advancing steadily, but the thought of being trapped by flames had never really entered her mind and she refused to be stampeded now.
She turned back to watch the progress of Curt Newsom as he raced up the slope. It was almost dusk now where she was standing but she could see him coming steadily toward her. He would be beside her in another minute.
The cowboy star, puffing heavily from the race up the rocky slope, reached Janet’s side.
The smell of smoke was stronger now and the flames were brighter as though they were eating their way through heavier underbrush.
Curt’s features were plainly visible in the half light of the early evening and Janet could see the lines of worry on his face.
“It’s worse than I thought from what Helen told us,” he said, shielding his eyes and looking across the intervening valleys to the ridge down which the fire was now racing.
“Is it serious?” asked Janet. “Are we in danger?”
Curt stared at her hard, wondering just how much he dared to tell her. Then he decided she might as well know the truth and he spoke frankly.
“The wind’s rising all the time and this fire’s spreading rapidly. We’ve got to get out of here within the next few minutes or we may never leave these valleys alive.”
RACING FLAMES
Janet felt an inward surge of terror sweep over her, chilling her mind and body. But it lasted for only an instant. She was too calm, too sensible to become panic stricken now. They might be in a tight spot but she had confidence that the angular, capable cowboy would be able to pull them through.
“We’ve got to get back to the bus and warn them of the danger. Maybe the boys will have the engine fixed by the time we’re back.”
Curt turned for a final look at the advancing wall of smoke and flame.
A steady procession of small animals, driven from their homes, was racing through the underbrush and an occasional frightened rabbit would almost bump into them in its blind haste to find safety.
“Come on!” said Curt. He held out his hand and Janet grasped it. With the cowboy leading the way, they plunged down the slope. It was risky business, going at that speed, but speed was essential and they dared a twisted ankle to reach the bus with the least possible delay.
Janet dropped the stick she had been carrying and grasped Curt’s strong wrist with both of her own hands. They were fairly flying down the incline, Janet’s legs working mechanically as she followed the lead of the cowboy star.
They crashed through a low fringe of underbrush and reached the twisting 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.
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.
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.
Burning brands, carried along by the wind, were dropping in the creek now, hissing and sputtering as they struck the water where they soon became blackened embers.
Janet, turning toward the opposite bank, saw a clump of underbrush burst into flame. The fire, whipped by the rising wind, spread out rapidly. Venturing a peep above the creek bank, a searing blast of heat struck her forehead and she could feel her hair curl. One glance was enough, for a towering wall of flame seemed to be rising straight into the sky.
Janet ducked back under the protection of the bank and dipped the cloth into the water again. She straightened up again and glanced toward the bus. The cameraman who had been grinding away steadily had deserted the bus and was dragging his camera with him. He reached the shelter of the bank and other willing hands helped him set up the machine in a position that was well protected.
It was impossible to hear now and Janet felt Helen crowding close toward her. They looked at each other through staring eyes—eyes that reflected the inward fear that gripped their hearts. The heat was stifling now. The cloths they had soaked with water were drying with incredible rapidity and Janet remembered Curt’s warning to breath as lightly as possible. Helen, shoeless, was standing in the water. A hot ember dropped beside them and struck one of Helen’s legs before it had cooled. She winced at the pain, but there was no escape.
It seemed as though the entire opposite slope of the valley suddenly burst into flame and the intensity of the heat redoubled. Janet held her breath and dipped down into the stream to wet the cloth again. Helen did likewise a moment later and they gained some relief.
Billy Fenstow and Curt Newsom were crouched beside the cameraman who was still grinding away at the red terror.
Again the cloths on their faces dried and their breaths came in great choking gasps. Janet felt as though her heat-seared lungs would burst. She wanted to cry, but the tears were whipped away by the hot blasts.
The flame on the opposite slope seemed to reach a new peak of intensity and the water at their feet ran crimson. Then the roar lessened, the peak of the fire was past.
Janet, through smoke-rimmed eyes, saw it sweep over the far crest of the valley. Scattered fires were left burning in its wake, but the main advance of the fire had rushed on seeking new conquests.
As the red glow ebbed, they crept out from under the bank and dropped with abandon into the shallow waters. It mattered little that embers, some of them still hot, were drifting in the stream, or that the water itself was now lukewarm—it was a haven from the horror that had just passed.
A WELCOME RESCUE
Janet couldn’t even guess how many minutes they rested on the stream bed with the water washing away the aches in their weary bodies. As usual, Curt took the initiative when he had regained a portion of the abundant vitality that flowed through his veins.
The cowboy sat up and surveyed the scene. A dozen fires were still burning in the valley and the horizon ahead of them, tinged in crimson, marked the passing of the fire demon.
Billy Fenstow, digging sand out of his ears and sputtering heartily, was the first to speak.
“Curt, how in thunder are we ever going to get out of here?”
The cowboy shook his head.
“Walk,” he moaned, looking down at the once fancy boots which had never been intended for the heavy work in which they had been used that night.
Billy Fenstow groaned in anguish.
“Then I guess I’ll just settle down and wait for a flood to come along and wash me down the valley or until I come to some culvert where I’ll stick.”
The cameraman who had ground away steadily through the thick of the raging flames crept over to his machine. It had been subject to terrific heat and there was only a small chance that the negative had come through without serious damage.
“How many feet did you shoot?” asked the director.
The photographer squinted at the footage indicator on the camera, but there was not enough light to note the figures.
“If the film isn’t ruined they’ll be the best scenes of a blaze like this that have ever been filmed,” he predicted.
Janet struggled into a sitting position and looked around. Her eyes sought the bus, with only faint hopes that the vehicle had come through unscathed. If it had, it would offer their one hope of escape for she felt that repairs might be made to the tires and if not, maybe they could limp along.
But her hopes were doomed to disappointment. The bus was a glowing mass of steel. Fire had swept over it, igniting the upholstery and burning out the entire interior of the bus. It was a hollow shell with gaping windows.
Curt Newsom stood up.
“There’s no use sitting around here wondering what we’ll do,” he said. “If a couple of the boys will come along, I’ll start back to the trail and we’ll keep going until we find someone or can reach a telephone.”
Two other cowboys joined Curt.
“The rest of you might follow us and get back as far as the ranch. Maybe there’ll be a little drinking water left in that well,” advised Curt as he started up the trail, hobbling painfully on his twisted boots.
Helen looked at her oxfords. They were in even worse shape than Curt’s boots.
“I guess I’ll have to stay here,” she said, half to herself and half to Janet. “I’d never make it back to the ranch.”
Janet picked up the water soaked piece of cloth she had used as a mask to shield her face.
“Wrap this around one foot and use your piece for your other foot. Then slip your oxford on loosely. That ought to ease the pain.”
Helen looked grateful and tried the suggestion at once. She wrapped the damp cloth around as tightly as possible and then pulled on her shoes. It was a snug fit, but there was a soft cushion for her bruised feet to rest upon. She stood up and tried walking.
“That’s much better. Thanks a lot, Janet.”
Billy Fenstow took charge then.
“We’ll start for the ranch and go as far as we can,” he decided. “There may be some shelter there and we’re in no condition to stay out any longer than necessary.”
With the director in the van, the singed and tired band started back for the ranch. After a short distance they struck the trail. It was faint, but they managed to follow it without too much difficulty.
Hot blasts of air seemed to sweep down from all sides and breathing became a painful exercise again. Janet wished that she might have just one cool, sweet breath of air—just one.
Helen stumbled and Janet reached out and caught her companion before she fell.
“All right?” asked Janet anxiously, for Helen was not of as sturdy stock as she.
“I’ll make it,” replied Helen, the words coming from tight-set lips.
But Janet was not so sure that Helen could do it. They fell further and further behind the others, but at last they topped the final ridge and looked down in the valley where the ranch had been, where they had filmed so many scenes of “Water Hole,” the new picture.
It was too dark to see the outlines of the ranchhouse but Janet could discern several large, glowing piles of embers and she knew that even the buildings at the ranch had been destroyed by the fire. Perhaps the well was still filled with pure sweet water. Her throat seemed drier at the thought and she turned her full attention to Helen, who needed a supporting arm for the final, down hill lap of their journey.
The cowboys were the first to reach the ranchyard and Janet could hear them ripping the cover off the well. There was a shout ahead of them.
“The water’s okay. Hurry up!” It was one of the cowboys, and the news gave them the courage to quicken their lagging steps.
Billy Fenstow handed Janet a blackened dipper, but she insisted that Helen take the first drink. There was plenty of water and they all drank their fill while Billy Fenstow scrambled around the timbers above the well hunting for the wires which had been fastened to the film containers they had lowered into the well. He found them at last, but decided they were safer in the water than any place else.
“What about going on?” asked one of the cowboys.
“No use in that. Someone had used the dipper before we got here, so that means Curt is up ahead of us and he’s traveling much faster than we could. We’ll do better to wait right here where they’ll find us. Try and make yourselves comfortable.”
But the director’s last words were of little help. The air was still dry and searing and there was no shelter anywhere. Fires still glowed all over the valley and little clouds of smoke swept around them.
Janet and Helen walked over to the ranchhouse, but the embers were glowing so brightly that it was impossible to get very close.
“I ache all over,” confessed Helen. “When I finally get into bed I’m going to sleep the clock around.”
“Count me in on that program,” nodded Janet. “Well, we might as well sit down and keep as comfortable as possible.”
But they went back to the well for another drink before trying to relax on the ground.
The men were gathered a short distance away, talking in low voices about their harrowing escape. They conversed in monotones that soon lulled the girls’ tired minds and before she knew it Janet found herself dozing. They were fitful little naps, broken with sudden thoughts of the fire. Then she would snap to complete wakefulness, only to have her fatigue overcome her again. She had dozed perhaps half a dozen times when the increasing chill of the air awakened her.
Helen, curled up on the ground, was breathing steadily and deeply and had not noticed the change in the atmosphere.
Janet scanned the horizon. There was no scarlet in the northwest now—only a dense blackness that seemed to be growing thicker. The southeastern sky was still vividly flame seared.
The men had ceased their talking, but an occasional glow of a cigarette marked the dark huddle where they had gathered. A slight snore could be heard and Janet attributed it to their tubby little director. A flash of lightning illumined the mounting clouds and Janet shivered at the thought of a storm sweeping down on them after the fire.
Helen must have felt the shiver run through Janet’s body for she stirred sleepily.
“I’ll sleep another hour,” she mumbled, and Janet knew her companion thought they were back home. There was no need to awaken Helen now. She might just as well get as much relaxation as possible.
Helen slipped back into a deep sleep and Janet kept a lone vigil. The clouds swept higher and a distant rumble of thunder came down from the hills.
The men were moving restlessly now and Janet could hear Billy Fenstow berating the weather. But there was nothing they could do about it except complain a little and then hope that someone would reach them before the coming storm broke.
Janet wondered how far Curt and the two cowboys who had gone with him had been able to travel. Perhaps their aching feet had forced them to stop. But, knowing Curt, she had a feeling that he would get through and bring help to them as soon as possible.
Helen sat up, rubbing her blood-shot eyes.
“More fire?” she asked as the rumble of the thunder smote her ears.
“Well, not quite that bad. Just a thunderstorm.”
Helen shivered. “We’ll catch our death of cold,” she groaned, and Janet had to admit that Helen’s fears were not unwarranted. After the heat of the fire and the fatigue, they would be excellent candidates for severe colds or anything else that happened along.
Several of the men who had been hunting around the ranchyard returned to the well.
“Can’t even find half a board,” one of them reported. “The fire swept everything clean.”
Billy Fenstow turned to Janet and explained.
“I had a couple of the boys out looking for some boards or anything we could use to build a shelter for you girls.”
“That was thoughtful,” replied Janet, “but we’ll get along all right.”
Billy grumbled to himself. He wasn’t so sure. The girls had stood a lot already and there was a limit to their endurance.
A patter of rain struck them, the drops sizzling as they came down on the remains of the ranchhouse.
Janet’s spirits dropped and for the first time in weeks she felt like having a good, old-fashioned crying spell, but there wasn’t any pillow where she could bury her head and she didn’t want to cry in front of the men in the company.
The valley was hushed for a moment. Even the thunder was silent in the breathless pause that often comes just before a mid-summer storm vents its fury.
It was during this pause that Helen, watching the hills below the storm clouds, caught a flash of light. It was too low for lightning and she gripped Janet’s right arm.
“There’s a car coming!” she cried.
Janet turned hopefully and looked in the direction Helen pointed, but there was no sign of light and she heard an involuntary sob escape from Helen.
Then it came again, two twin beams of light cutting around a hill. Helen was right! A car was coming and Janet, unashamed, felt the tears flowing freely down her cheeks.
Billy Fenstow was talking to himself.
“I knew that lanky cowboy would do it,” he said, repeating it over and over as though he were a human talking machine, stuck on a single note.
A horn sounded a warning note as the oncoming vehicle swung into the ranchyard just as the sky opened and the first sweep of rain struck the valley. Forgetting all else, they ran toward the machine, which proved to be a hulking truck, with a covered top.
Janet and Helen reached the rear. Someone reached down and pulled them under the shelter of the top. A flashlight blazed into their faces and a strong arm encircled Janet’s shoulder. It was Helen’s father and they knew that their worries for that eventful night were over.