The fire had in some way been confined to the foot-hills. It had rained all
night, so the danger of spreading was now over. My letter had brought the
officers of the forest service; even the Chief, who had been travelling
west over the Santa Fe, had stopped off and was in Holston then. There had
been no arrests, nor would there be, unless Buell or Stockton could be
found. A new sawmill was to be built by the service. Buell's lumbermen
would have employment in the mill and as rangers in the forest.
But I was more interested in matters which Dick seemed to wish to avoid.
"How did you get out of the burning forest?" I asked, for the second time.
"We didn't get out. We went back to the pool where we sent you. The
pack-ponies were there, but you were gone. By George! I was mad, and then I
was just broken up. I was . . . afraid you'd been burned. We weathered the
fire all right, and then rode in to Holston. Now the mystery is where were
you?"
"Then you saved all the ponies?"
"Yes, and brought your outfit in. But, Ken, we--that was awful of us to
forget those poor fellows tied fast in the cabin." Dick looked haggard,
there was a dark gloom in his eyes, and he gulped. Then I knew why he
avoided certain references to the fire. "To be burned alive . . . horrible!
I'll never get over it.
Pages:
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209