None of them noticed that the wind had changed its direction. The air was laden with floating particles of ash. The smoke grew suddenly thicker, completely veiling the sun. All through the day the wind had been driving the distant fires obliquely across their line of travel. Now it was coming at them head on.
Cautious Sam brought his team to a halt. A much more experienced man than he was could not have judged how far away the fire was, nor of its extent. He jumped down from his wagon to consult with Bert.
"Wot abaht it?"
"It's looking pretty thick. Wind's rising, too. What d'you suggest, Sam?" A faint roar could distinctly be heard coming down the wind. Every minute the smoke grew more opaque.
"'Ow would it be ter do some of this 'ere backfirin' they told us abaht at Battleford?"
"All right," replied Bert. "You know how the dodge works, I suppose?"
"Why, set fire ter the blinkin' grarss—over there, s'y; an' then move on to it when it's burnt." Sam waved his arm towards a bit of open prairie.
Old-timers at Battleford had warned them to be particularly careful about the smoke from prairie fires—not to get asphyxiated into unconsciousness, and then probably burned to death.
Where they were halting was a fairly favourable position—yet it wasn't. They were in the slough and brush country thirty or so miles west of Battleford. There were any number of tree-fringed water holes to walk into for protection from the fire. But sloughs meant grass, and much of it; and a heavy growth of grass meant large volumes of smoke, against which water was of no avail.
Sam had been doing some thinking. So had Bert, as far as that goes. His thoughts, though, were flitting about like butterflies, and, apart from love matters, were of no particular consequence.