How?"

They caught his hope, and their haggard faces lightened.

"Kid, we ain't forest rangers," said Herky. "Do you know what you're
talkin' about?"

"Yes, yes! Come on! We'll back-fire!"

I led the way down the slope, and they came close at my heels. I rode
into the shallow brook, and dismounted about the middle between the
banks. I hung my coat on the pommel of my saddle.

"Bud, you and Bill hold the horses here!" I shouted, intensely excited.
"Herky, have you matches?"

"Nary a match."

"Hyar's a box," said Bill, tossing it.

"Come on, Herky! You run up the brook. Light a match, and drop it every
hundred feet. Be sure it catches. Lucky there's little wind down here.
Go as far as you can. I'll run down!"

We splashed out of the brook and leaped up the bank. The grass was
long and dry. There was brush near by, and the pine-needle mats almost
bordered the bank. I struck a match and dropped it.

Sis-s-s! Flare! It was almost like dropping a spark into gunpowder. The
flame ran quickly, reached the pine-needles, then sputtered and fizzed
into a big blaze. The first pine-tree exploded and went off like a
rocket. We were startled by the sound and the red, up-leaping pillar
of fire. Sudden heat shot back at us as if from a furnace. Great sparks
began to fall.

"It's goin'!" yelled Herky-Jerky, his voice ringing strong. He clapped
his hat down on my bare head. Then he started running up-stream.

I darted in the opposite direction. I heard Bud and Bill yelling, and
the angry crack and hiss of the fire. A few rods down I stopped, struck
another match, and lit the grass. There was a sputter and flash. Then
the flame flared up, spread like running quicksilver, and, meeting the
pine-needles, changed to red. I ran on. There was a loud flutter behind
me, then a crack almost like a shot, then a seething roar. Another pine
had gone off. As I stopped to strike the third match there came three
distinct reports, and then others that seemed dulled in a windy roar.
I raced onward, daring only once to look back. A fearful sight met my
gaze. The slope was a red wave. The pines were tufts of flame. The air
was filled with steaming clouds of whirling smoke. Then I fled onward
again.

Match after match I struck, and when the box was empty I must have
been a mile, two miles, maybe more, from the starting-point. I was
wringing-wet, and there was a piercing pain in my side. I plunged across
the brook, and in as deep water as I cou