The driver turned on his flashlight and Janet could hear Curt’s muttered exclamation of disgust.
“We can change; we’ve got a spare,” the driver said.
“We’ve got to and we’ll have to work fast,” snapped Curt.
Under the lashing directions of the cowboy star, other members of the company turned to and lent a hand. Tools were taken out, a big jack was placed under the rear axle, and the work started.
From somewhere behind came the ominous roar of the fire and the sky behind the ridge they had just topped crimsoned. Helen, her thin oxfords badly cut, shifted miserably from one foot to another and longed for a hot bath in which to soak her aching feet.
While Curt and several assistants wrestled with the task of getting the flat tire off, the driver managed to get the spare wheel down from its rack at the rear.
“Not much air in it,” he grumbled.
“There never is,” snapped Curt, “but you know how to use a pump.”
Billy Fenstow seized the pump, fastened the hose to the valve on the tire, and bent his tired body to the task of increasing the air pressure in the big tire.
It was a tedious, wracking job, and the men alternated, working at top speed for a minute, then giving way to another fresher one.