“Great! He thrives on this kind of excitement. What a dynamo that man is. He can talk on six different phones at once, and play checkers at the same time. And what he doesn’t know about forest fires wouldn’t fill up the eye of a needle.”
“He sure fooled Macauley,” Sandy said. “He was certain that last line at the end of the ridge wouldn’t stop the fire.”
Russ frowned. “Well, the chief wasn’t sure it would, either. He just had a hunch that that wind would blow itself out come daylight. He’s still not convinced that they’ve stopped her for good.”
“Gee,” Sandy said moodily. “Even the fire boss. This must be a nerve-racking way to earn a living.”
“They don’t get any money for fighting fires. Not these boys anyway. There are exceptions, of course. Gigantic fires where they can’t raise enough men by the volunteer system. Then they have to hire them.”
At the mess table, their tin plates were heaped with scrambled eggs, bacon and buttered toast. It was obvious from their dirty, disheveled appearance that they had just come off the fire line, and the cooks besieged them with questions. The boys talked freely—and not without pride, Sandy had to admit to himself. It was a good feeling being treated as equals by these hard-bitten old smoke-eaters.
When they were seated cross-legged under a shady tree, wolfing the food and washing it down with gulps of hot coffee, Sandy changed the subject.
“Any news on that bomb?” he asked his uncle in a low voice.
Russ shook his head somberly and swallowed a mouthful of egg. “Nothing. I was in touch with the Pentagon last night, and again this morning. As you can imagine, they’re pretty concerned about this fire. They offered to send in troops to help out if it becomes necessary.”
“Do they think there’s any danger?” Quiz asked. “Of the bomb exploding, I mean.”