The shouts seemed to come from the wood. They were accompanied by the thud of many galloping hoofs and a crashing through the thick underbrush.
Presently more than a dozen horsemen dashed into view, brandishing long poles wrapped with wet blankets. They were the advance guard of the fire-fighters, who had galloped to the scene along an old disused logging road through the woods. Without stopping to ask needless questions, these horsemen turned and made off at full speed, spiralling up the hill in single file, shouting and calling as they rode.
“Wish we could follow them!” said Hugh, gazing after the vanishing forms until they disappeared in the shadows of the forest and their shouts became mere echoes. “But I guess we’ll have our work cut out for us here.”
“That’s just what I was thinking,” answered Spike ruefully.
The two youths did not waste much time in unavailing wishes. Every now and then they ran to the outskirts of the farm and penetrated a little way into the wood, to learn, if they could, whether the fire was drawing nearer. Not being thoroughly acquainted with the topography of this particular tract of land, they did not know what obstacles the fire might meet in its path, such as green hollows, cup-like bogs in the depressions of the hills, streams, or even small ponds. All these were possible, for the country for miles and miles around Pioneer Camp was unusually varied.
As it chanced, there was a swiftly flowing brook—which in places widened to the size of a small stream—not far away, on the edge of the pasture where a few cows were stolidly grazing; and this stream was the hope of old Jake Walsh, the one bulwark against the attack of the dreadful enemy. On their tour of the farm, Hugh and Spike discovered this running stream, and they realized its value as a means of defence.
The worst danger, as they knew, was from flying sparks; so they kept a careful watch for these. Two old straw-stacks in the barnyard would go like tinder, if these were once ignited, and Mr. Walsh advised the boys to draw water from the horse-tank under the windmill, climb the stacks, and “souse ’em good an’ plenty.”
“I’d help ye, if I only could!” groaned Jake Walsh, after giving this urgent advice. “But, consarn these old good-fer-nothin’ limbs o’ mine! they ain’t a bit o’ use no more. I might’s well have one foot in ther grave as have my whole livin’ carkiss laid up like this!”
“Come, now; never you mind, Jake,” soothed his wife. “Me an’ ther boys is lively lads, and we’ll take good care o’ them stacks.” This was more easily said than done; nevertheless, with Hugh perched aloft on top of the stack, and with Spike and old Mrs. Walsh forming a bucket-brigade and handing pails of water up to him, the task was somehow accomplished.
In the midst of their labors they paused, hearing the sound of wheels along the road.