“Tell cook I’m ready, too,” snapped Barrett, grunting off the step. “I thought your cattle were never going to get out of that meal camp, Withee. You feed ’em too much! That’s where your profits are going to.”
Lane heard him snuffing.
“This smoke seems to be getting thicker, Withee. It must be something more than a bonfire, wherever it is.”
“Cook is waiting to tell you,” said Harry. “He didn’t want to break in on your business talk, seein’ that you was both so much took up with it. Warden from Jerusalem was through here this morning to give alarm and call for fighters. He’s takin’ a nap in the office camp, waitin’ for Mr. Withee.”
“A loafer like the rest of ’em!” snorted Barrett, starting away. “Dig him out, Withee, and send him to me. I’m going to eat.”
At the sound of his retreating footsteps “Ladder” Lane unfolded his gaunt frame, stood up, and swung the rifle into the hook of his arm. He opened the office door and came upon Withee standing where Barrett had left him. In the gloom the operator’s toil-stooped shoulders and bowed legs were outlined by the flare from the cook-camp. He continued his mutterings as he turned his head to look at Lane, his gray beard sweeping his shoulder.
“It’s runnin’ north from Misery, Mr. Withee,” reported the warden. “It’s runnin’ in the slash and goin’ fast. If it gets through Pogey Notch it means a crown fire in the black growth.”
“I hope it’ll burn every spruce-tree between Misery and the Canada line!” barked the furious old operator. “If I could stand here and put it out by spittin’ on it I wouldn’t open my mouth.”
“I’ve ’phoned the alarm through Attean,” went on Lane, calmly, with no apparent thought except his duty. “You ought to send twenty-five men.”