ones stubbornly resisting control, the Forest Service's District One had no choice but to hire more and more men to fight them. By the end of the month, there were almost three thousand firefighters scattered across the district's several forests, one of which was the Coeur d'Alene.
District One Chief Forester W.B. Greeley would later say, "It was a case of hiring anyone we could get. We cleaned out Skid Road in Spokane and Butte. A lot of temporaries were bums and hoboes. In a bad fire year, the temporary is the weakest link in the chain.
"
He would also praise the help given by logging-camp crews and miners, just as Forest Service people would be quick to say good words about the efforts of homesteaders and townspeople, railroaders and others with a tie to the woods. But the truth was, the temporary fire-fighting force was a mixed and untrained lot.
Many of the men who went out to firelines had no experience with fires. Many spoke little English. Some were drifters who signed up under false names and lied about their hometowns. They went into the burning forests wearing the clothes they'd been recruited in, and the ones wearing street shoes or snug wool suits would regret that.
They worked for twenty-five cents an hour with board, thirty if they provided their own food. For some the regular work was a godsend. For more than a few, it was an invitation to devilment.
Placer Creek
July 24, Afternoon
Boone, brave again now that the lightning storm was over, accompanied Jarrett and Samuel when they set out for the smoke Samuel had been called to check on.
They had to climb halfway up a mountain to get to it, and Jarrett's aching legs felt more rubbery with every step. When they finally reached a smoldering log and small ground fire that seemed to be the source of the smoke, Samuel asked Jarrett what he thought they should do if the blaze got away.
Jarrett, cross and weary, snapped, "I don't know! You tell mel"
"And be to blame when what you don't know gets someone killed?"
"No! I've just had it with lessons for now," Jarrett said. Then, shamed by the disappointed expression on Samuel's face, he added, "Look, I want to learn all this stuff, but no more right now. Can't we just get done here?"
This last fire proved to be more stubborn than either of the ones they'd handled during the night, and they sawed and chopped and stooped over their shovels for several hours. The day's rising heat made the fire burn hotter, and it turned fighting the fire into miserable, broiling work. Jarrett got so thirsty he drank his last quart of water all in one wonderful moment, and then the liquid slogging around inside him, along with the sun beating down, made him want to vomit. And then he was desperately thirsty again long before Samuel declared, "That's enough. Let's pack up."
***
They were bushwhacking down the side of a steep slope, looking for a trail out, when something caught Boone's attention. His ears pricked forward, and his neck hair bristled.
"What's wrong, boy?" Samuel asked.
Boone whined softly and then dived down a game path that branched off at a sharp angle. He looked back once, saw Jarrett and Samuel were following, and went on.
Jarrett heard men's voices and then pleased-sounding, distinct words. "She ought to run up that face."
"Boone!" Samuel said softly, and the dog came instantly to his side.
"Jarrett, you stay here," Samuel ordered. "Boone, come."
Jarrett watched them make their way quietly toward the voices, and then, once they were out of sight, he waited impatiently to hear what was going on. Finally, when he couldn't stand the waiting anymore, he worked his way down to where he could see.
Directly below him, near a tree with a black scar, two men fanned a flame in a small pile of tinder. They were so intent on what they were doing that they didn't notice Samuel approaching until he was almost on them.
"Want to tell me what you're up to?" he said, a hand rest ing on the handle of his pistol. Boone,
District One Chief Forester W.B. Greeley would later say, "It was a case of hiring anyone we could get. We cleaned out Skid Road in Spokane and Butte. A lot of temporaries were bums and hoboes. In a bad fire year, the temporary is the weakest link in the chain.
"
He would also praise the help given by logging-camp crews and miners, just as Forest Service people would be quick to say good words about the efforts of homesteaders and townspeople, railroaders and others with a tie to the woods. But the truth was, the temporary fire-fighting force was a mixed and untrained lot.
Many of the men who went out to firelines had no experience with fires. Many spoke little English. Some were drifters who signed up under false names and lied about their hometowns. They went into the burning forests wearing the clothes they'd been recruited in, and the ones wearing street shoes or snug wool suits would regret that.
They worked for twenty-five cents an hour with board, thirty if they provided their own food. For some the regular work was a godsend. For more than a few, it was an invitation to devilment.
Placer Creek
July 24, Afternoon
Boone, brave again now that the lightning storm was over, accompanied Jarrett and Samuel when they set out for the smoke Samuel had been called to check on.
They had to climb halfway up a mountain to get to it, and Jarrett's aching legs felt more rubbery with every step. When they finally reached a smoldering log and small ground fire that seemed to be the source of the smoke, Samuel asked Jarrett what he thought they should do if the blaze got away.
Jarrett, cross and weary, snapped, "I don't know! You tell mel"
"And be to blame when what you don't know gets someone killed?"
"No! I've just had it with lessons for now," Jarrett said. Then, shamed by the disappointed expression on Samuel's face, he added, "Look, I want to learn all this stuff, but no more right now. Can't we just get done here?"
This last fire proved to be more stubborn than either of the ones they'd handled during the night, and they sawed and chopped and stooped over their shovels for several hours. The day's rising heat made the fire burn hotter, and it turned fighting the fire into miserable, broiling work. Jarrett got so thirsty he drank his last quart of water all in one wonderful moment, and then the liquid slogging around inside him, along with the sun beating down, made him want to vomit. And then he was desperately thirsty again long before Samuel declared, "That's enough. Let's pack up."
***
They were bushwhacking down the side of a steep slope, looking for a trail out, when something caught Boone's attention. His ears pricked forward, and his neck hair bristled.
"What's wrong, boy?" Samuel asked.
Boone whined softly and then dived down a game path that branched off at a sharp angle. He looked back once, saw Jarrett and Samuel were following, and went on.
Jarrett heard men's voices and then pleased-sounding, distinct words. "She ought to run up that face."
"Boone!" Samuel said softly, and the dog came instantly to his side.
"Jarrett, you stay here," Samuel ordered. "Boone, come."
Jarrett watched them make their way quietly toward the voices, and then, once they were out of sight, he waited impatiently to hear what was going on. Finally, when he couldn't stand the waiting anymore, he worked his way down to where he could see.
Directly below him, near a tree with a black scar, two men fanned a flame in a small pile of tinder. They were so intent on what they were doing that they didn't notice Samuel approaching until he was almost on them.
"Want to tell me what you're up to?" he said, a hand rest ing on the handle of his pistol. Boone,
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