There was no word of Danny Sanders. The fire had raged at Gaunt’s Crossing, wiping out a sawmill and a road construction camp: but of Danny and his brother nothing was known. Cars could not get through, for the only track was blocked by enormous fallen trees, still blazing fiercely: one had been tried, and had encountered a sudden shower of sparks and flying coals as a tree came down—the car had been blazing fiercely in a moment, and the men in it had staggered out of the fire-zone on foot, glad to find themselves alive, their shirts charred rags. No one knew whether Danny had got across the blazing spur to his brother. The men who spoke of his chances shook their heads doubtfully. There were sad hearts, for everyone liked big Danny.
The slow afternoon crawled on. There were no more refugees now; all who were not still clinging to their homes, refusing to leave while there was a chance of fighting, had been taken in to Baroin; and rumour said that the township itself was in grave danger, from a fire approaching from the east. All the men of the valley were fighting to save their homes. The wind had eddied, swinging from one point to another; or long ago the blaze from the hills would have swept down across the creeks. It roared above them, the lashing tongues of flame leaping half a mile at a time; their sullen raging sound, and the mighty crashing of forest giants, loud above the howling gale. Even on the flats, limbs were twisted and flung many yards away, and great trees crashed down before the fury of the wind; two men had been badly hurt, and had been taken away, insensible, to the hospital. The men, strung out below the foothills, raced from place to place, as burning fragments from the mountains fell into the long grass—beating savagely at the blaze that sprang up almost before the fiery messenger had touched the earth. Women fought with superhuman strength beside them, or staggered from one to another with buckets of tea—men and women alike choking and crying with the smoke. And all the while the cruel, scorching gale howled, and they knew in their hearts that, sooner or later, they must give up the unequal fight and think only of saving their lives.
A dozen times the sheds or the house of Hill Farm had caught—but always Robin or Barry had been lucky enough to see the first licking tongue of flame and to quench it before it had fairly taken hold. Polly worked with them, as quick to see as they: as the day wore on she seemed unable to let Robin out of her sight. Whether Robin beat out a springing flame, or worked at preparing food, or toiled across the paddock with cans of tea, Polly was beside her—careless of the blistering heat, always ready with a faint little smile when the girl looked at her. It was useless to beg her to remain inside: she merely shook her head obstinately, still smiling. And there was no time for argument on Black Sunday.
It was four o’clock when David Merritt, with blackened face and red-rimmed eyes, raced to the house again.
“Get to the creek!” he shouted, trying to make himself heard above the shrieking of the gale and that deeper roar that came behind it. “It’s coming down like a wall—there’s no fighting it! Take blankets—and hurry!” He struck his spurs into his horse, galloping to the next farm.
They were all prepared: like disciplined soldiers they made their way out and filed down the slope, leaving Hill Farm to its fate. Only Robin hung back a moment, calling to Barry. They flung the water in their buckets over the verandas.
“Not that it’s much good,” Robin muttered—“it dries almost before it falls, in this wind. But it’s our last kick! Grab your blanket, Barry, and run!”
They trotted after the little procession ahead—already dimly seen through the smoke.
“One of the men told me he doesn’t think the house will go,” Barry said. “So much green all round it, and no big trees that will burn. And he said it was the very fierceness of the wind that would save it, for the fire will go past it in a flash. It’s flying fragments that are the danger.”
“Well, goodness knows there are enough of them,” Robin answered, stamping on a smouldering piece of bark that fell almost at her feet. “No, I guess it’s the finish for poor old Hill Farm, Barry. And we’ve been so happy there!” She raised her voice as she saw Polly hanging back uneasily before them. “All right, Polly—go on, I’m coming!”