"Certain sure," he replied. "The only way to handle a fire is to stick to it like death to a dead nigger."
Bob returned to the hotel very thoughtful. There he found Mr. Welton seated comfortably on the verandah, his feet up and a cigar alight.
"This is pretty good medicine," he called to Bob. "Get your feet up, you long-legged stork, and enjoy yourself. Been exploring?"
"Listening to the band on the plaza," laughed Bob. He drew up a chair. At that moment the dim figure of California John jingled by. "I wouldn't like that old fellow's job. He's a ranger, and he's got to go and look up a forest fire."
"Alone?" asked Welton. "Couldn't they scare up any more? Or are they over there already?"
"There's three playing poker at the saloon. Looked to me like a fool way to do. He's just going to take a look and then come back and report."
"Oh, they're heavy on reports!" said Welton. "Where is the fire; did you hear?"
"Stone Creek—wherever that is."
"Stone Creek!" yelled Welton, dropping the front legs of his chair to the verandah with a thump. "Why, our timber adjoins Stone Creek! You come with me!"