The sun, showing blood-red through the smoke, now sank behind the hills and a blessed coolness filled the air. The fire smouldered along the fire-breaks, but the dreaded sparks were not flying. The trembling roar diminished to a steady crackling where fallen trees were being steadily consumed.
The fire-fighters, their shoulders drooping, and wavering from sheer weakness, plodded down the hill for well-earned food and rest.
“You’ll have to be at it again at daylight,” said Wilkinson grimly. They nodded a tired assent. Wilkinson and Donald with twelve men patrolled the fire area throughout the night.
The next morning broke sullenly in a dull haze. As the first streaks of light heralded the coming of the new day, the fire-fighters again took up their posts. Men from the other mill arrived, and another day of battle with the fire demon was begun. An attempt was made to check it on the west front, high up the mountain-side, where the fire had crept through in the night to a small level plateau. At ten o’clock the wind came suddenly, and with it the fire broke through on the south-west corner with a deafening roar and rushed through a stand of dead trees with ever-increasing speed.
Donald shouted a quick cry of warning to the men who were in danger of being cut off by this break. They came on the double quick, just in time, as a lurid wall of flame shot up the hill over the path they had traversed.
“Are the men all out?” questioned Donald.
“Andy isn’t here!” said one of the men excitedly.
Donald seized the speaker’s arm. “Was Andy with you?”
The man nodded.
Donald’s face set in grim lines. Whirling quickly, he ran straight toward the line of fire. With a bound Connie was on her horse and after him at a swift trot. As he neared the screen of smoke, Pegasus changed his gait to that of a mad runaway, and with the small rider lying prone on his bare back disappeared from view.