The water was shallow, not more than six inches deep in any place and the bottom was sandy. Helen slipped off her torn shoes and wiggled her toes in the cool luxury of the water. Just then she forgot to worry all about the fire in the pleasant delight of having her feet comfortable if even for the moment.
Men who had been working on the backfires came tumbling over the bank, falling and splashing into the water, but no one minded being dirty or wet.
Janet could hear a roaring that sounded like the beat of scores of kettle drums—a roaring that was increasing in intensity and furore.
Splashing along the sandy bottom, she came to a lower place in the bank where she could look up the slope.
A solid wall of flame topped the crest, then swept down with an amazing rapidity. The air was hot and searing like a blast from an over-heated furnace.
A handful of men were still grouped around Curt, working until the last moment to spread the backfire as far as possible.
Helen, padding through the shallow water, joined Janet and they watched the awesome scene together. The roar of the onrushing fire increased and waves of heat beat against their faces. Janet knew that it must be terrific out on the slope and she wondered when Curt would lead his men in.
One of them, gasping and choking, ran toward the creek, lunged past them, and hurled himself face downward in the water.
Seconds later Janet heard Curt’s cry and the rest of the men, with Curt and Billy Fenstow bringing up the rear, ran toward the creek bank.
The director stumbled and fell heavily and the cowboy bent down and picked him up. Carrying the director in his arms, Curt, staggering under the extra burden, ran on. One of the men leaped over the bank to help and together they eased the little director into the water.