routine at the site of a second strike, this one in a lone snag that they reached just as the first light of dawn broke. Here, before they got started, Samuel pointed out a large patch of ground scorched in some previous fire. "That would be a place to escape to," he said. "Fire doesn't usually waste its time on old bums."
This time, while Jarrett cut fireline, Samuel brought down the snag itself, since it was spawning new blazes faster than they could put them out.
They worked furiously, and soon Jarrett was gulping for breath through the dry handkerchief Samuel had made him tie over his mouth and nose. Smoke hurt his eyes, and salty sweat stung his body. It stuck his clothes to him and made his hands and tool handles slippery.
Finally, though, Samuel said to stopâthey had it.
Plodding back to the ranger station, Jarrett had all he could do just to keep upright.
As they went inside the wall phone sounded the two long rings that meant a call for Samuel rather than for someone else along the telephone line. Jarrett, dropping into the nearest chair, watched his brother close his eyes in weariness as he answered.
After listening a moment, Samuel said, "Sure. I'll get on it."
He put the earpiece into its hanger on the side of the telephone box. "Report of another smoke," he told Jarrett. "Probably one I can handle myself. Why don't you get some sleep?"
Sleep would feel so good,
Jarrett thought. Then he got to his feet, because there was no way he would give up before his brother did. "It'll go faster with the two of us."
Homestead off Placer Creek
July 24, Morning
Sunlight streamed down through the skylight, warming the batch of dough Celia was kneading.
Whenever did Lizbeth grow up enough to start thinking about boys?
Celia wondered, as she lifted the far side of the dough and pulled it toward her and then leaned into it with the heels of her hands. Or
may be she just wants a friend.
Celia spun the dough a quarter turn and lifted again. The question had been bothering her better than a week now, popping up when she least expected it.
She hoped her niece wouldn't fall for someone like Tom Whitcomb.
Not that all men had faults like Tom's. That Ranger Logan, for instance. He seemed bound to duty just as sure as Tom Whitcomb never even saw his. She'd wager Samuel Logan, however tired he might have been, had spent the night out meeting that electric storm head-on. Just as she and Lizbeth had walked their own place at dawn to be sure they had nothing burning.
Through the door open to the morning breeze, Celia could see Lizbeth replacing a broken rail at the corral. What kind of work was that for a young girl to be doing? And she never complained, except when Celia didn't let her take on even more.
Celia couldn't remember once in the last four years that Lizbeth had asked for a thing besides wire or nails or plant starts. Never once, until making that one comment last week about Jarrett Logan and his brotherâ"I bet they don't come back"âhad Lizbeth let on that she missed other young people.
Celia kneaded the dough until it felt elastic with yeast coming to life. She covered it with a rucked towel and set it aside to rise. Then she walked out to where Lizbeth was working.
"I owe Dora Crane a letter," she said. "I was thinking that if I got to it one day soon, then we might drive it down to the mail drop. We could stop by the ranger station and leave a pie to make up for how ungracious I was to the ranger and Jarrett."
"If you want," Lizbeth answered, her voice stiff. Then she flung her arms around Celia so hard that Celia had to catch hold of a corral post to keep from being knocked off her feet. "Thank you!"
"Of course," Celia warned, "they might be away. Ranger Logan himself said this summer's keeping him busy."
FIELD NOTES
In the summer 1910, rangers who were used to working in isolation suddenly found their forests filling with strangers.
With new fires breaking out daily through July and older
This time, while Jarrett cut fireline, Samuel brought down the snag itself, since it was spawning new blazes faster than they could put them out.
They worked furiously, and soon Jarrett was gulping for breath through the dry handkerchief Samuel had made him tie over his mouth and nose. Smoke hurt his eyes, and salty sweat stung his body. It stuck his clothes to him and made his hands and tool handles slippery.
Finally, though, Samuel said to stopâthey had it.
Plodding back to the ranger station, Jarrett had all he could do just to keep upright.
As they went inside the wall phone sounded the two long rings that meant a call for Samuel rather than for someone else along the telephone line. Jarrett, dropping into the nearest chair, watched his brother close his eyes in weariness as he answered.
After listening a moment, Samuel said, "Sure. I'll get on it."
He put the earpiece into its hanger on the side of the telephone box. "Report of another smoke," he told Jarrett. "Probably one I can handle myself. Why don't you get some sleep?"
Sleep would feel so good,
Jarrett thought. Then he got to his feet, because there was no way he would give up before his brother did. "It'll go faster with the two of us."
Homestead off Placer Creek
July 24, Morning
Sunlight streamed down through the skylight, warming the batch of dough Celia was kneading.
Whenever did Lizbeth grow up enough to start thinking about boys?
Celia wondered, as she lifted the far side of the dough and pulled it toward her and then leaned into it with the heels of her hands. Or
may be she just wants a friend.
Celia spun the dough a quarter turn and lifted again. The question had been bothering her better than a week now, popping up when she least expected it.
She hoped her niece wouldn't fall for someone like Tom Whitcomb.
Not that all men had faults like Tom's. That Ranger Logan, for instance. He seemed bound to duty just as sure as Tom Whitcomb never even saw his. She'd wager Samuel Logan, however tired he might have been, had spent the night out meeting that electric storm head-on. Just as she and Lizbeth had walked their own place at dawn to be sure they had nothing burning.
Through the door open to the morning breeze, Celia could see Lizbeth replacing a broken rail at the corral. What kind of work was that for a young girl to be doing? And she never complained, except when Celia didn't let her take on even more.
Celia couldn't remember once in the last four years that Lizbeth had asked for a thing besides wire or nails or plant starts. Never once, until making that one comment last week about Jarrett Logan and his brotherâ"I bet they don't come back"âhad Lizbeth let on that she missed other young people.
Celia kneaded the dough until it felt elastic with yeast coming to life. She covered it with a rucked towel and set it aside to rise. Then she walked out to where Lizbeth was working.
"I owe Dora Crane a letter," she said. "I was thinking that if I got to it one day soon, then we might drive it down to the mail drop. We could stop by the ranger station and leave a pie to make up for how ungracious I was to the ranger and Jarrett."
"If you want," Lizbeth answered, her voice stiff. Then she flung her arms around Celia so hard that Celia had to catch hold of a corral post to keep from being knocked off her feet. "Thank you!"
"Of course," Celia warned, "they might be away. Ranger Logan himself said this summer's keeping him busy."
FIELD NOTES
In the summer 1910, rangers who were used to working in isolation suddenly found their forests filling with strangers.
With new fires breaking out daily through July and older
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