ted, the fire had swept the plains
for miles before the fighters reached it. Sparks and flames had jumped
the creek, but by now the grass was burned back far enough on both sides
so that the danger for this region was past.

The amused natives told how a man had jolted up on a stiff horse, a
painting outfit in his saddlebag, to watch the fire. "This is great,"
he exclaimed as he plied brush and color. Then, as a volley of wild
sparks shot across the narrow stream and went into flame nearby, he
threw down the brush, rushed in among the fire-fighters, worked madly
until the flames were extinguished, then went back and finished the
picture.

"Who is he?" someone in the gaping crowd asked.

"The cartoonist from Milwaukee," a Brule settler answered.

For several days longer the fire raged, with the air smoky and a red and
black pall over the earth. Then it faded as our other terrors had faded,
and was gone.

* * * * *

Already, in the midst of fire and water famine, there stalked ghosts of
cold and hunger--the coming winter. With no money left to provide the
necessities of life, the homesteaders stared into the face of a food
famine. Most of them were now living on meager rations, counting every
penny, their crops shriveled in the fields.

Ada put her small wages into flour and coffee. And Heine remarked, "My
Ma says might be we'll starve and freeze yet. She's goin' to pray." We
watched him trudge back across the plains, a sturdy little fellow, one
suspender holding up patched overalls over a faded blue shirt, bare feet
which walked fearlessly and by some miracle escaped the constant menace
of rattlesnakes, ragged straw hat shading the serious round face. The
plains had made him old beyond his six years.

With the realization of danger which the prairie fire had brought, _The
Wand_ began to advocate government rangers and lookouts to be stationed
at strategic points. I was in the print shop writing an article on
conditions when Lone Star came in.

"I want to get my paper forwarded, Miss Printer," he stated; "I'm
leavin' the country. It's gettin' too crowded in these parts. Too
lonesome. I don't see how people can live, huddled up with somebody on
every quarter-section."

"Where are you going now?"

"Goin' to an honest-to-God range country," he said. "A short-grass
country, but rich feed. You can get away from landgrabbers there. It's
bigger'n all creation."

"Where shall I send