The rival bicyclists

For some time past the forest fires had been raging heavily in the dense growth to the northwest of Lockport, but as they were kept pretty fully under control but little apprehension was felt for the safety of the town.

Guards were stationed at various points both night and day, and they gave the alarm whenever the fire gained in one direction or another.

“It is a lucky thing that no fire has started in Huffman’s woods,” thought Joe as he rode home one evening after an unusually hard day’s training on his wheel. “If it did, and the wind should be just right, Greenpoint would suffer a good deal, unless every one was on guard and ready to fight it off. It’s a pity it doesn’t rain. Only half an inch of water in seven weeks is not enough to count.”

On the day following it grew unusually close and sultry. There was a breeze from the north, too, but it carried with it nothing that was in the slightest degree refreshing.

“I must take a spin along the Forest Turnpike,” said our hero to himself. “It ought to be cool along there and down in the Hollow. I can’t stand it to wheel home along the old dusty road in this awful heat.”

So, instead of turning to the west, he started off almost northwest, and was soon speeding along under the shade of the immense pine and other trees through which the Forest Turnpike had been cut four years previous.

When he reached the upper end of the turnpike, where the Hollow road branched off, he found a nice shady spot, near a tiny brook, and, dismounting, threw himself on the grass and pine boughs to rest.

He was over nine miles from home, and it was growing late, but he could not resist the temptation to linger and take it easy.

“The coolest spot in the country, I really believe,” he thought lazily, as he threw his head and closed his tired eyes. “What a difference between this and that hot store of ours.”

Joe lay quiet for perhaps ten minutes, then he gave a long sniff—another—and sprang up with a start.

What was that odor which was coming faintly to him from the woods on the other side of the brook? It smelled suspiciously like burning pine!

He waited another moment and then gave several more sniffs. He was right, it was something burning!

“Huffman’s woods must be on fire!” he thought, and immediately a worried look crossed his handsome face. He thoroughly understood the danger which the numerous forest fires brought.

The wind began to blow through the trees and brush, and in another minute the smoke came drifting overhead and through the upper branches. Joe reached for his machine and started to mount.

“I might as well be getting along,” he said, half, aloud. “There is no telling how far that fire, wherever it is, may reach before it is checked, it’s so awful hot to-day. If only the rain——”

Joe got no further. There was a strange roaring which reached him from a distance, followed by a sudden rush of wind, and then—he could scarcely believe his eyes—several smoking and burning brands fell near him and further on up the road.

“The fire is coming this way just as fast as ever it can,” he gasped. “My stars! Look at that! The whole woods will be afire in another ten minutes! I must go and give warning before it is too late!”

In a twinkle he was on his machine and riding along the Hollow road at topmost speed, his form bent over the handles and every ounce of muscle put on the flying pedals. His hat blew off, but he paid no heed to this, his one thought being to outride the oncoming fire and warn Greenpoint people of their danger.

Ahead of him was a steep hill, six hundred feet long, and up this he pushed desperately, the smoke and burning brands sweeping down on all sides of him. Once a hot cinder fell upon his neck, burning him severely and causing him to utter a sharp cry of pain. But not a second was lost; he knew only too well the value of every iota of time.

And now the burning brands, flying hither and thither, set fire to the brush on either side of the narrow road, and it was as if Joe was riding through two walls of flames. The air grew stifling and he could scarcely breathe.

“If I was only to the top of the hill I could coast down the other side,” he muttered to himself. “But it’s a good two hundred feet off yet, and I don’t seem to be getting ahead at all.”

He endeavored to increase his speed, and the very desperateness of the situation lent him extra strength. Up and up he went, avoiding the rough stones as best he could, and yet not daring to turn much from a direct course.

Joe had almost gained the top of the hill when there came a furious blast of wind, filled with smoke and burning branches and leaves, that struck him directly in the face. Our hero bent back involuntarily and his bicycle came very nearly to a standstill. It looked as if he would be stopped at the very moment when the worst of the danger was left behind.

But the brave youth recovered, and with one hand over his face and the other guiding his machine, he pushed manfully on until the crown of the hill was reached.

Here the smoke and flying branches were nearly as thick as below, but the awful up-hill struggle was past and ahead lay a downward road stretching for over a mile.

With a vigorous push on the pedals Joe started himself on the down grade and then placed both feet on the rests.

Like a rocket the bicycle shot down the incline, gathering speed at every yard. To Joe it was as if they were fairly flying past the trees and rocks which lined the way. More than once the machine struck a small stone and bounded upward, lifting him several inches out of the saddle. But he held on to the handles, feeling that it was not only a ride to save his own life, but also the lives of others.

When the foot of the hill was reached Joe found that he had left the smoke and the burning brands in his rear.

But the wind was still blowing his way—the way Greenpoint lay—and he realized that the fire was traveling fast behind him. Before the bicycle could slacken its speed he had his feet again on the pedals and was once more pushing on, determined to give the villagers all the time possible in which to save themselves and their goods.

At last, almost exhausted from his spurting, he came in sight of the first house, that in which Ralph Riley lived. The family were just gathering about the supper-table as he spun up to the horse block.

“The woods are on fire! Look out for yourselves!” he yelled, and, assured that his cry had been heard and understood, he dashed on.

Next came Deacon Quilby’s home—a low, rambling place, surrounded by an old-fashioned hedge. The deacon sat on the piazza, looking over a new hymn.

“Hullo! ridin’ most amazin’ fast—” he began when Joe cut him short.

“Huffman’s woods are in flames and the fire is coming this way. You had better get out, and quick, too, if you want to save your lives!”

And before the deacon could utter a word in reply he was out of sight again.

In three minutes more Greenpoint was reached, and, riding up and down the main street, Joe gave the alarm, which quickly spread. Men, women, and children came running from every house.

It did not take long to decide upon what to do. The possibilities of a fire reaching the place had often been discussed, and plans had been laid to fit all kinds of invasions.

“We’ll blow up the Bleekler cottage and Boren’s stable and the trees behind it,” said Seth Axtell, one of the leading merchants of Greenpoint. “And some of you can plow up as much of Cass’ field as you can. That ought to help us break the line of fire.”

“It will,” said one of the hotel-keepers. “And if the Jackson cottage and stable are gutted with water I think we’ll escape, although some one ought to be on guard at every building with tubs of water and a wet blanket.”

The men and boys went to work with a will, Joe among the rest. The women and girls, and even the children, did all they could to help, and the next half-hour was a busy one.

The buildings mentioned were blown up with gunpowder and dynamite, and all of the débris carried off, and a half-dozen plows soon turned up a large expanse of fresh earth. Water was also used as freely as the state of wells and cisterns would permit.

Before the half-hour was up the smoke and the flying sparks began to come toward the village, and inside of a quarter of an hour the entire forest to the north of Greenpoint was a mass of flames.

The lurid blaze made the darkness of the evening as bright as day, and this blaze lasted until the rising of the sun on the following morning. All night long the villagers worked without ceasing, and the morning found them still at their various posts of duty.

At eight o’clock it began to rain. At first the drops came down sparingly, but soon it began to pour steadily, and then every one knew that the terrible danger which had threatened them for fourteen hours was past.

The village was filled with a thick, choking smoke, but no one cared for this. All went round from place to place, congratulating each other and thanking God for their deliverance.

And Joe was not forgotten. It was Deacon Quilby who started the thanks which were given him before he returned home.

“If it hadn’t a-bin for Joe Johnson, Marthy and I would most likely hev been burnt up,” he said, with tears standing in his blue eyes. “He saved our lives, and I allow as he saved the village, too, God bless him!”

Stirring as they had been, the incidents attending the forest fires in the district did not stop Joe from training for the championship race.

He was out early and late, and often took Dick Burns and Ralph Riley along to pace him on a tandem which belonged to the former.

The race was to come off in Boston, so it would be necessary for Joe to leave home several days previous to the event.

“I must win—I simply must,” he said to himself more than a score of times.

All his friends came on to see the races, including Dick, his sister Carrie, Charley, Ralph Riley, Dan Hukley, Sam Anderson, and Carl Lathrop. Wilbur Rand was also present, having entered the ten-mile event.

Joe was very careful as to what he eat, for he knew his stomach must be in prime condition or he could not win.

Paul watched over his brother carefully nearly all the time.

There was five hundred dollars at stake, and the championship besides.

But unknown to them an enemy was at work.

It was Lemuel Akers, who had become a gambler and heavy drinker.

He heard how Joe was training, and set to work to defeat the youth he so hated.

“He made me an outcast,” reasoned Lemuel Akers to himself. “Now I’ll ruin his chance of winning, see if I don’t, and then—we’ll settle old scores.”