pinch
out, this high up the gulch, and a fire would jump it in a twinkling.
And if anything should happen to us, down there,--one of us hurt
himself, you know, in hurrying,--we should be in a trap as the fire
swept across. Out of the timber was the place for us.

But away across, an opposite slope rose to bareness, where were just
grass and rocks; and between was a long patch of aspens or willows, down
in the hollow. If we couldn't make the bareness, those aspens or willows
would be better than the pines and evergreens. They wouldn't burn so;
and if they were willows, they might be growing in a bog.

"No," I said. "Let's strike across," and I explained.

"But the man. Wait a minute. Maybe he doesn't know," said Scout Van
Sant; and away he raced, down and back for the dug-out.

We followed, for of course we wouldn't let him go alone. As we ran we
all shouted, and at the dug-out we shouted, looking; but all that we saw
was the beaver man far off across the creek, riding through the timber.
He did not glance back; he kept on, riding slowly, headed for the fire.
That seemed bad. He was so angry that perhaps his judgment wasn't
working right, and he didn't pay much attention to the smell of smoke.
So all we could do was to race up the ridge again, get the packs, and
plunge down over for sanctuary.

The wind was blowing toward the fire, as if sucked in. But I knew that
this would not hold the fire, because there would be another breeze,
low, carrying it along. With a big fire there always is a wind, sucked
in from all sides, as the hot air rises.

Those Red Fox Scouts hiked well, loaded with their packs. I set the
pace, in a bee-line for the willows and aspens, and I was traveling
light, but they hung close behind. The altitude made them puff; they
fairly wheezed as we zigzagged down, among the trees; but we must get
out of this brush into the open.

"Will we make it?" puffed Ward.

"Sure," I said. But I was mighty anxious. It seemed to me that the
distance lengthened and lengthened and that I could feel the air getting
warm in puffs. This was imagination.

"Look!" cried Van Sant. "What's that?" He stopped and panted and
pointed.

"Bunch of deer!" cried Ward.

It was. Not a bunch, exactly, but two does and three fawns, scampering
through the timber below, fleeing from the fire. They were bounding over
brush and over logs, their tails lifted showing the white--and next they
were out of sight in a hollow. They ma