From my own sense of direction I fancied we were going
wrong, but Bill was so cool he gave me courage. Soon a blue, windy haze,
shrouding the giant pines ahead, caused Bill to change his course.

"Do you know whar you're headin'?" yelled Herky, high above the roar.

"I hain't got the least idee, Herky," shouted Bill, as cool as could be,
"but I guess somewhar whar it'll be hot!"

We were lost in the forest and almost surrounded by fire, if the roar
was anything to tell by. We galloped on, always governed by the roar,
always avoiding the slope up the mountain. If we once started up that
with the fire in our rear we were doomed. Perhaps there were times when
the wind deceived us. It was hard to tell. Anyway, we kept on, growing
more bewildered. Bud looked like a dead man already and reeled in
his saddle. The horses were getting hard to manage, and the wind was
strengthening and puffed at us from all quarters. Bill still looked
cool, but the last vestige of color had faded from his face. These
things boded ill. Herky had grown strangely silent, which fact was the
worst of all for me. For that tough, scarred, reckless little wretch to
hold his tongue was the last straw.

The air freshened somewhat, and the forest lightened. Almost abruptly we
rode out to the edge of a great, wide canyon. It must have crossed the
forest at right angles to the canyon we had left. It was twice as wide
and deep as any I had yet seen. In the bottom wound a broad brook.

"Which way now?" asked Herky.

Bill shook his head. Far to our right a pall of smoke moved over the
tree-tops, to our left was foggy gloom, behind rolled the unceasing
roar. We all looked straight across. Probably each of us harbored the
same thought. Before that wind the fire would leap the canyon in flaming
bounds, and on the opposite level was the thick pitch-pine forest of
Penetier proper. So far we had been among the foot-hills. We dared not
enter the real forest with that wild-fire back of us. Momentarily we
stood irresolute. It was a pause full of hopelessness, such as might
have come to tired deer, close harried by hounds.

The winding brook and the brown slope, comparatively bare of trees,
brought me a sudden inspiration.

"Back-fire! Back-fire!" I cried to my companions, in wild appeal. "We
must back-fire. It's our chance! Here's the place!"

Bud scowled and Herky grumbled, but Bill grasped at the idea.

"I've heerd of back-firin'. The rangers do it. But how?