“Stapleton a good first, but he’ll go back on weight. It used to be black and orange when he was at home.”
There was a ripple of hoarse laughter, a gasping cheer, and then silence, for now their play was over, and it was with the grim quietness, which is not unusual with their kind, the men of Silverdale turned towards the fire. It rolled towards the homestead, a waving crimson wall, not fast, but with remorseless persistency, out of the dusky prairie, and already the horses were plunging in the smoke of it. That, however, did not greatly concern the men, for the bare fire furrows stretched between themselves and it; but there was also another blaze inside the defences, and, unless it was checked, nothing could save house and barns and granaries, rows of costly binders, and stock of prairie hay. They looked for a leader, and found one ready, for Witham’s voice came up through the crackle of the fire:
“Some of you lead the saddle-horses back to the willows and picket them. The rest to the stables and bring out the working beasts. The ploughs are by the corral, and the first team that comes up is to be harnessed to each in turn. Then start in, and turn over a fall-depth furrow a furlong from the fire.”
There was no confusion, and already the hired men were busy with two great machines until Witham displaced two of them.
“How that fire passed the guards I don’t know, but there will be time to find out later,” he said to Dane. “Follow with the big breaker—it wants a strong man to keep that share in—as close as you can.”
Then they were off, a man at the heads of the leading horses harnessed to the great machines, and Witham sitting very intent in the driving-seat of one, while the tough sod crackled under the rending shares. Both the man and the reins were needed when the smoke rolled down on them, but it was for a moment torn aside again, and there roared up towards the blurred arch of indigo a great rush of flame. The heat of it smote into prickliness the uncovered skin, and in spite of all that Witham could do, the beasts recoiled upon the machine behind them. Then they swung round wrenching the shares from the triplex furrow, and for a few wild minutes man and terrified beast fought for the mastery. Breathless, half-strangled objurgations, the clatter of trace and swivel, and the thud of hoofs, rose muffled through the roar of the fire, for while swaying, plunging, panting, they fought with fist and hoof, it was rolling on, and now the heat was almost insupportable. The victory, however, was to the men, and when the great machine went on again, Maud Barrington, who with the wife of one of her neighbours had watched the struggle, stood wide-eyed, half-afraid, and yet thrilled in every fibre.
“It was splendid!” she said. “They can’t be beaten.”
Her companion seemed to shiver a little. “Yes,” she said, “perhaps it was, but I wish it was over. It would appeal to you differently, my dear, if you had a husband at one of those horse’s heads.”
For a moment Maud Barrington wondered whether it would, and then, when a red flame flickered out towards the team, felt a little chill of dread. In another second the smoke whirled about them, and she moved backward choking with her companion. The teams, however, went on, and, though the men who led them afterwards wondered how they kept their grip on the horses’ heads, came out frantic with fear on the farther side. Then it was that while the machines swung round and other men ran to help, Witham, springing from the driving-seat, found Dane amidst the swaying, plunging medley of beasts and men.
“If you can’t find hook or clevis, cut the trace,” he said. “It can’t burn the plough, and the devils are out of hand now. The fire will jump these furrows, and we’ve got to try again.”