“The ranch buildings are safe enough, I think,” said Transley. “The grass there is close cropped, and there is some plowing.”
For a moment the three sat, watching the spread of the flames. By this time the whole lower valley was blanketed in smoke. Clouds of blue and mauve and creamy yellow rolled from the meadows and stacks. The fire was whipping the light breeze of the afternoon to a gale, and was already running wildly over the flanks of the foothills.
“Well, I’m off,” said Zen. “Good-bye!”
“Be careful, Zen!” her father shouted. “Fire is fire.” But already her horse was stretching low and straight in a hard gallop down the valley.
“I’ll ride in to camp and tell Tompkins to make up a double supply of sandwiches and coffee,” said Transley. “I guess there’ll be no cooking in Landson’s outfit this afternoon. After that we can both run down and lend a hand, if that suits you.”
As they rode to camp together Y.D. drew up close to the contractor. “Transley,” he said, “how do you reckon that fire started?”
“I don’t know,” said Transley, “any more than you do.”
“I didn’t ask you what you KNEW. I asked you what you reckoned.”
Transley rode for some minutes in silence. Then at last he spoke:
“A man isn’t supposed to reckon in things of this kind. He should know, or keep his mouth shut. But I allow myself just one guess. Drazk.”