Curt, scanning the horizon above the ridge, urged them to greater haste.
“Fire’s getting close,” he warned. “We’ve got to get under way.”
Billy Fenstow unfastened the pump and Curt seized the big steel wheel with its huge casing. Other willing hands helped him get it on the axle. Anxious fingers sped the bolts into place and they tightened them as rapidly as possible.
“Get going!” Curt yelled at the driver.
“How about the jack?”
“Never mind that. Throw her in gear and she’ll come off. That fire’s coming fast now.”
As though in answer to Curt’s warning, the flames shot over the top of the nearest ridge and started down. They seemed to be racing now with the speed of a greyhound, leaping from thicket to thicket with unbelievable rapidity.
Janet and Helen, clinging together on the back seat, watched it with fascinated eyes. The fire was a living, advancing thing that might surround and swallow them in its flaming greed. The thought sent a deadening chill through Janet and for a moment she closed her eyes to the red spectacle.
The motor of the bus roared again as Curt trod heavily on the starter. The big vehicle pulsated with power and there was the crash of gears as they lurched ahead and the left rear wheel dropped off the jack.
Like a frightened elephant the bus leaped forward, its headlights once more boring through the smoke-laden night air.