“Curt, how in thunder are we ever going to get out of here?”
The cowboy shook his head.
“Walk,” he moaned, looking down at the once fancy boots which had never been intended for the heavy work in which they had been used that night.
Billy Fenstow groaned in anguish.
“Then I guess I’ll just settle down and wait for a flood to come along and wash me down the valley or until I come to some culvert where I’ll stick.”
The cameraman who had ground away steadily through the thick of the raging flames crept over to his machine. It had been subject to terrific heat and there was only a small chance that the negative had come through without serious damage.
“How many feet did you shoot?” asked the director.
The photographer squinted at the footage indicator on the camera, but there was not enough light to note the figures.
“If the film isn’t ruined they’ll be the best scenes of a blaze like this that have ever been filmed,” he predicted.
Janet struggled into a sitting position and looked around. Her eyes sought the bus, with only faint hopes that the vehicle had come through unscathed. If it had, it would offer their one hope of escape for she felt that repairs might be made to the tires and if not, maybe they could limp along.