The boys followed Ranger Fellows out of the tent as the gang bosses crowded around the table for a question-and-answer session with the fire boss and to get a final briefing. Sandy was surprised to see that dusk was settling over the forest. He looked at his wrist watch and saw that almost five hours had passed since he had spotted the first thin swirl of smoke from the fire tower. To the west an enormous golden cloud hung over the trees like a halo.
“Doesn’t that look beautiful?” Jerry said.
“Deadly beauty,” the ranger told him, explaining that it was the last rays of sunlight slanting up from below the horizon on the screen of smoke drifting up from the forest fire.
He led them over to the mess tent, where cooks were doling out steaming-hot suppers to the fire fighters from big insulated containers. “Eat hearty, men,” he said wryly as they took their places on line. “We have a long night ahead of us.”
“How can anyone work in these woods at night?” Sandy said. “It gets so dark you can’t see your hand in front of your face.”
“It’s not easy,” the ranger admitted. “Normally, Landers would wait until daylight to tackle most fires. The rate of spread drops sharply through the night, then picks up again when the sun rises. Dawn and early morning are generally the best hours to work. But conditions being what they are—this drought and all—the chief wants us to keep on top of it every minute. It won’t be any picnic, though, building that south fire line at night, even if they mount auxiliary spotlights on the trucks and tractors.”
“What gives with this fire scout business?” Jerry wanted to know. “What do we do?”
“Run messages up and down the line so that headquarters can keep in touch with the progress on all sectors at all times,” Dick explained. “I’ll be stationed at the junction of the north and south lines with a walkie-talkie radio. You fellows will relay reports from the gang bosses in to me, and I’ll call them in to the chief.” He grinned. “You’re going to be mighty leg-weary before this is over.”
At the head of the serving table, a grizzled old man wearing a greasy undershirt handed them each a tin plate and a knife and spoon. In quick succession, Sandy received a ladle of hash, a ladle of cole slaw and a slab of bread—at least two inches thick—slapped on top of it all. The last man on the serving line dipped a tin mug expertly into a galvanized can filled with iced tea and sent him on his way. Sandy had intended to ask for something to eat for Prince, but then he saw that the big Doberman was squatting patiently before the entrance of the headquarters tent, waiting for Russ Steele.
When they had finished eating, they scraped their platters clean and dropped them in a tub of soapy, boiling water to one side of the mess tent.