y shoveling sand upon it. Sometimes they cut down the smouldering
brush and flung it back across the break into the inferno on the other
side. Blinded and strangling from the smoke, the fire-fighters would make
short rushes into the clearer air, swallow a breath or two of it, and
plunge once more into the line to do battle with the foe.

For hours the desperate battle went on. Dave lost count of time. One
after another of his men retreated to rest. After a time they drifted
back to help make the defense good against the plunging fire devil.
Sanders alone refused to retire. His parched eyebrows were half gone.
His clothes hung about him in shredded rags. He was so exhausted that he
could hardly wield a flail. His legs dragged and his arms hung heavy. But
he would not give up even for an hour. Through the confused, shifting
darkness of the night he led his band, silhouetted on the ridge like
gnomes of the nether world, to attack after attack on the tireless,
creeping, plunging flames that leaped the trench in a hundred desperate
assaults, that howled and hissed and roared like ravenous beasts of prey.

Before the light of day broke he knew that he had won. His men had made
good the check-trail that held back the fire in the terrain between Bear
and Cattle Canons. The fire, worn out and beaten, fell back for lack of
fuel upon which to feed.

Reinforcements came from town. Dave left the trail in charge of a deputy
and staggered down with his men to the camp that had been improvised
below. He sat down with them and swallowed coffee and ate sandwiches.
Steve Russell dressed his burn with salve and bandages sent out by Joyce.

"Me for the hay, Dave," the cowpuncher said when he had finished. He
stretched himself in a long, tired, luxurious yawn. "I've rid out a
blizzard and I've gathered cattle after a stampede till I 'most thought
I'd drop outa the saddle. But I give it to this here li'l' fire. It's
sure enough a stemwinder. I'm beat. So long, pardner."

Russell went off to roll himself up in his blanket.

Dave envied him, but he could not do the same. His responsibilities were
not ended yet. He found his horse in the remuda, saddled, and rode over
to the entrance to Cattle Canon.

Emerson Crawford was holding his ground, though barely holding it. He too
was grimy, fire-blackened, exhausted, but he was still fighting to throw
back the fire that swept down the canon at him.

"How are things up above?" he asked in a hoar