Cowboys peeled off their horses and paused long enough to strip off saddle blankets and use them to beat the flames. Loose horses scattered and milled, interfering with arriving wagon teams. A wide, plowed strip of fallow land formed a firebreak to confine the spread of flames on one side.
The fire was inching fastest to the west, and the cowboys threw all their energies in that direction to check the spread. “There’s no damned water!” someone complained. Without water to wet blankets, they weren’t as effective.
Next to the smoldering remains of the shack, there was a charred and blackened barrel that held the drylander’s water. The wet contents had kept the barrel from burning, but it was too far away with too much smoldering ground between it and the firefighters to do them any good.
The cowboys had organized themselves into a combat unit, experienced at fighting prairie fires, but the drylanders, for all their eagerness to help, were milling about in confusion, not knowing what to do. As Webb was driven back by the heat of the flames, he noticed the directionless homesteaders advancing uncertainly toward the fire, without blankets or any weapons except their own will to stamp out the flames.
“Where is the fire wagon?” one of them demanded. “Why hasn’t it come?”
Webb stifled the run of impatience at the question and pulled down the kerchief he’d tied around his face to keep from inhaling too much smoke. Most of these drylanders came from the cities, where they relied on someone else to fight their fires. But they weren’t living in the city now.
“If any of you have water barrels on your wagons, bring them up here!” Webb shouted the order. “Wet down blankets and jackets, anything you have, and use them to beat down the flames!” No one objected to his directives, relieved to know what they were to do, and Webb suddenly found himself taking charge. “Spread out and form a line! Don’t all of you bunch together! If the wind shifts, you’ll find yourself trapped in a circle of fire!”
A homesteader came running up to him, stricken and pale, “You got to keep the fire from burning my wheatfield!”
“To hell with your wheatfield!” Webb glared. “If we don’t stop this fire, it’ll blacken hundreds of square miles!” He pushed the man toward a gap in the newly formed line. “Get in there!”
Two wagons came rolling up, the horse teams plunging and shying at the swirling curtain of smoke that heralded the advancing flames. Both had water barrels in back. Webb vaulted onto the back of one of the wagons and lifted off the barrel cover.
“You ladies!” He waved to women hovering anxiously in the rear. “Start wetting down the blankets for the men so they don’t have to leave the line! And if any of you have shovels or tools in your wagons, bring them up here!”
With all hands put to constructive use, Webb went up and down the line, pitching in himself wherever there were flash points. The fiery heat sweated the alcohol out of his system as adrenaline surged through his blood.
The fire crackled nearly underfoot and the choking smoke filled Benteen’s lungs, paralyzing him with a coughing spasm. Webb saw it and grabbed his father by the shoulders, guiding him away from the fire to an unthreatened area near the wagons, where the air was relatively clear of smoke and blowing cinders.
“Are you okay?” Webb paused long enough to ask and see the affirming nod from his father. Then he straightened and called an order to the first woman he recognized. “Ruth, take care of him and keep him here.”
Ruth hurried over, bringing a dipper of water for the senior Calder. He accepted it, flicking a grateful look at the girl before his gaze traveled after his son. There were tears in his eyes. Some of them were caused by the burning smoke, but most of them came from pride. His son was finally taking responsibility for something and giving orders.
“Dammit, I knew you had it in you all along, son,” Benteen whispered under his breath.
“What did you say, Mr. Calder?” Ruth asked.
“Nothing.” He shook his head and raised the dipper to his mouth, letting the water soothe his smoke-raw throat. God, he was tired, he thought and sank back against a wagon. Maybe he wouldn’t have to work so hard now; he’d let Webb take over some of the more arduous chores so he could spend more time with Lorna. The Lord knew she deserved more of his time than he’d given her.
They had nearly beaten the fire to a standstill when Webb sensed something was wrong. He lifted his head, trying to identify the cause, as he scanned the fireline. It was a full second before he noticed the almost imperceptible shift in the wind’s direction. There was a sudden crackle and curl of yellow flames, angling toward the wagons.
“The wind’s changing!” He shouted the warning to the others far down the line and headed to the fire’s new point of attack.
Those closest had already seen the threat and were converging on it. As Webb hurried to join them, he saw Lilli whipping at the shooting flames in a kind of terrified frenzy. She was too close to be effective, and her frantic efforts were fanning the fire, not smothering it.
Before he could call to her, smoke rolled from the hem of her long skirt, and he heard her scream. “Lilli, roll!” Webb started running. “Get down on the ground and roll!” But her fear put her beyond hearing as she first tried beating at her skirt, then turned to run to the wagons.
Webb dived at her, sending both of them crashing to the ground. It seemed he’d never known fear in his life until that moment. Her hands clawed at him, trying to get away, but he kept her down and grabbed the water-soaked blanket she’d been using, throwing it over her kicking legs and the smoldering skirt. He pinned her struggling, heaving body to the ground with the weight of his and pressed the blanket tightly around her thighs and hips. It was long, agonizing seconds before the skirt stopped smoking. But she was still fighting him, sobbing hysterically, her eyes closed.
“The fire’s out, Lilli,” he assured her and ran a stroking hand down the side of her face. “It’s all over.”
“I can still smell the smoke,” she protested in a choked voice.
“The fire’s out,” Webb repeated and eased some of his weight off of her as she began to relax. “I promise you it’s out.”
She
brought a hand up to her mouth as if to smother her crying. “I can smell it,” she insisted, not opening her eyes.
Webb moved, slipping an arm under her and lifting her up. She weakly buried her face in his shirt, crying softly now. He turned his head to her, his lips tightly brushing the singed ends of her hair. “You brave little fool,” he murmured, half in anger for the extreme danger she’d put herself in. He scooped up her legs to carry her when he stood.
Then Stefan Reisner was kneeling in front of him, his smoke-blackened features making him look even older. Anxiety was in his eyes as he reached out a hand for his wife.