“Hey, Quiz!” he shouted. “Turn that thing on us for a while.”
“Good idea, son,” one of the smoke-eaters said, and the rest of them picked up the chant. “Let ’er rip, boy.”
Quiz obligingly swerved the nozzle in their direction and they were engulfed in cooling mist. Sandy opened his mouth wide and let the water soothe his swollen tongue and parched throat. After five minutes of this, they went back to work with renewed energy.
The line was completed in record time, but none too soon. The fire front was only about 200 yards away when Macauley gave the order to backfire. Although the front was less than 1200 feet wide, the flame-thrower crews ignited the fringe along the line for a full half mile. The boys, resting with the pick-and-shovel men on the north tip of the ridge, watched anxiously as the backfires flared up strong in the dry brush and foliage. Innumerable times, the flames leaped the line to attack the trees on the far side, but each time the dripping wet boughs repulsed them.
“Looks as if we’ll stop her,” Sandy said with elation.
One of the fire fighters shook his head gloomily. “The backfire ain’t getting anywhere though.”
It was true. The backfires were making only slight progress toward the head of the fire, which was racing forward with incredible speed.
“You know what?” Quiz said hesitantly. “I think the wind is beginning to die down.”
“Aw, it’s your imagination,” Jerry said wearily.
“No, he’s right,” another man exclaimed. “She’s slowing down.”