Jack was relieved when he saw that Beth’s ’chute had opened. Two or three hundred feet below him the round top of the ’chute was swinging in the wind. Underneath he caught a glimpse of Beth’s swaying body. He saw all of this in the split seconds it required him to fall head downward past Beth’s ’chute. He wanted Beth to know he was with him, so he did not rip his cord until he was a hundred feet or so under the old man. When his umbrella spread, he waved his hand and shouted. He heard the old man’s voice and knew he was all right.
The wind created by the miles of solid fire front below swept the ’chutes swiftly toward the mountain side. The worst moment of their descent was at hand. Jack had been hung in the spike-topped cedars on previous occasions. But he was the lucky one of the pair this time. The edge of his ’chute twisted off a branching limb, and although Jack landed with a jolt, he was on the ground unhurt. Old man Beth was less fortunate.
Beth’s umbrella was spiked squarely in the top of a slender cedar. Jack, freeing himself from the straps, got under the tree. Beth was fumbling with the cords and Jack saw he was cutting them.
A hard object came hurtling through the air and narrowly missed Jack’s head. Jack smiled grimly. It was the new intake air valve for the dinky.
“Get th’ valve—don’t wait for me—I’ll make it down—”
Despite his own perilous situation, Beth’s mind was fixed on getting the log train engine working. But Jack stayed below until he saw the old man had freed himself and was making his way slowly down the tree. Beth reached the lower limbs of the cedar and was attempting to cling to the trunk when a branch snapped. He fell heavily at Jack’s feet, and Jack grew sick as he saw how the old man’s leg had twisted under him.
Heedless of Beth’s protests, Jack got him to his shoulder and started down the mountain toward the camp. He was making slow progress when he heard a crashing in the bush. Four or five of the logging crew had seen the plane and the ’chutes. They contrived a rough sling for old man Beth, and one of the men hurried ahead with Jack to the camp.
Occasional brands and sparks were falling near by. Jack looked along the twisting log track, with its light, rusted rails, and his heart sank.
Men of the logging crew crowded around, a new hope succeeding the black despair with which they had watched the crawling blaze. Jack had the pipes apart and the intake valve in place when Beth was brought in. His fractured leg did not prevent the old man from thinking.
“Grab down the canvas an’ souse it in the springs,” he directed. “Get the wet canvas an’ all th’ gunny sacks we’ve got onto the cars—when we get goin’, every man wrap himself up—it’ll likely be hotter’n blue hell, but the wet rags’ll help.