ry tried to persuade him to ride around to the homesteads
and tell the girls who lived alone that the fire was still a long way
off and that men had gone to fight it.

Coyote Cal stretched his long, angular figure to full height and stood
there hesitant. "No, miss, I'd ruther fight fire," he said at length.

"But the girls will be frantic with fear."

"Hain't no use a calf-bawlin' over a prairie fire. If it gits yuh, it
gits yuh, an' that's all there is to it."

With these consoling words he swung into the saddle and turned his
horse's head toward the fire.

Ma Wagor came outside where Ida Mary and I watched the reflection of
flame against the darkening sky. The air was still. There was no wind.

"I'm goin' home to milk the cow," Ma announced. She had paid forty
dollars for that cow, she reminded us, and she wanted every last drop of
milk out of her. Besides, she didn't believe in anybody leaving this
world hungry.

The red dusk found the plains stirring. The ominous silence was broken
by rumbling wagons hurrying with their barrels of water, tractors
chugging, turning long fresh rows of dirt as breaks, teams everywhere
plowing around shacks and corrals.

Night came on, inky black. The red light on the horizon and billowy
clouds of smoke intensified the darkness. Over the range, cattle were
bellowing in their mad fear of fire. They were coming closer to the
reservation fence, running from danger.

The hours crept past; around us on the plains the settlers had done all
they could, and they were waiting as Ida Mary and I were waiting,
watching the red glow on the sky, thinking of the men who were
desperately beating out the advancing flames, wondering if each tiny
gust foretold the coming of the wind.

Inside the shack we moved about restlessly, putting the money we had on
hand in tin cans, the legal paper in the little strong box, and burying
them in the small, shallow cave. If the fire came, we would seek refuge
there ourselves, but it wouldn't be much use. We knew that.

Out again to look at the sky, and then up and down the print shop,
restlessly up and down. Ida Mary made coffee; we had to do something,
and there was nothing for us to do but wait. Wait and listen to the
silence, and look our own fear squarely in the eyes and know it for what
it was.

"What's that?" said Ida Mary in a queer, hoarse voice. She put down her
cup and sat rigid, listening. Then she jumped to her feet, her face
white. "Edith,"