“The chief just received a report from air observation. She’s progressing pretty much according to type. About three-quarters of a mile wide at the head, and covering roughly one hundred acres. There’s just enough wind to benefit us—keep the fire moving due east and restricting the spread at the rear. Unless the picture alters radically before morning, we’ve got her licked.”
“That’s great!” Sandy said.
Quiz glanced over the treetops at the faint reddish glow in the sky to the west. “It’s not nearly so bright over that way now.”
“You’re right,” the ranger agreed. “That’s because the crown fire has died out. It’s strictly a surface fire now. Of course if we get another scorcher tomorrow, she’ll likely flare up again.”
Jerry was peering anxiously through the thick forest in front of them. “You can just about see the flames now flickering over there.”
“It’s possible,” Dick admitted. “She’s only about a quarter of a mile off now.” Ruefully, he surveyed the tall, stately pines in the grove opposite them. “It breaks my heart to think we’re going to have to sacrifice all that timber.”
“When do we go to work?” Sandy asked him.
“Right now. The chief wants to know how things are progressing all the way down the line and he wants a thorough report on the contour of the fire front. Sandy, suppose you work the ridge, and Jerry and Quiz can take the south line. Find the gang bosses and ask them how things are shaping up in their sectors.”
Sandy climbed a steep rocky incline at the right of the clearing to the top of the ridge. From the crest, which was nearly forty feet higher than any of the surrounding terrain, he had an unrestricted view along the full length of the ridge. A full moon sitting on the very rim of the horizon lit up the scene like a big orange bulb. It was obvious now why Fire Boss Landers had chosen this site to construct the fire line. It was a natural barrier running straight as an arrow to the northwest, at least a mile long from tip to tip. Its rocky slopes, barren except for grass and stunted shrubs, swept down about a hundred feet on each side to the edge of the woods. The ridge was a great scar in the rich Minnesota earth left by some passing glacier millions of years ago.
Halfway along the ridge, Sandy could see the dozers rumbling back and forth over the crest, their headlights gleaming like the eyes of prehistoric monsters. He started toward them at a dogtrot.