“Forest fire!” exclaimed Dick.
“Wal, I reckon,” replied Hiram, tersely. “An' look thar, an' thar!”
Far to the right and far to the left, over the green, swelling foot-hills, rose that rounded, changing line of blue cloud.
“The slash! the slash! Buell's fired the slash!” cried Dick, as one suddenly awakened. “Penetier will go!”
“Wal, I reckon. But thet's not the worst.”
“You mean—”
“Mebbe we can't get out. The forest's dry as powder, an' thet's the worst wind we could have. These canyon-draws suck in the wind, an' fire will race up them fast as a hoss can run.”
“Good God, man! What'll we do?”
“Wait. Mebbe it ain't so bad—yet. Now let's all listen.”
The faces of my friends, more than words, terrified me. I listened with all my ears while watching with all my eyes. The line of rolling cloud expanded, seemed to burst and roll upward, to bulge and mushroom. In a few short moments it covered the second slope as far to the right and left as we could see. The under surface was a bluish white. It shot up swiftly, to spread out into immense, slow-moving clouds of creamy yellow.