Janet Hardy in Radio City. Wheeler Ruthe S.
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.”
Chapter Seven
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