ke a race-horse. They did not stop then to wonder how the
fire had started, or why it had gained such headway. They raced their
horses after sacks, and after the wagon and team and water barrels with
which to fight the flames. For it was not the claim-shacks in its path
which alone were threatened. The grass that was burning meant a great
deal to the stock, and therefore to the general welfare of every settler
upon that bench, be he native or newcomer.

Florence Grace Hallman had, upon one of her periodical visits among her
"clients," warned them of the danger of prairie fires and urged them to
plow and burn guards around all their buildings. A few of the settlers
had done so and were comparatively safe in the face of that leaping, red
line. But there were some who had delayed--and these must fight now if
they would escape.

The Happy Family, to a man, had delayed; rather they had not considered
that there was any immediate danger from fire; it was too early in the
season for the grass to be tinder dry, as it would become a month or six
weeks later. They were wholly unprepared for the catastrophe, so far as
any expectation of it went. But for all that they knew exactly what to
do and how to go about doing it, and they did not waste a single minute
in meeting the emergency.

While the Kid was riding with H. J. Owens into the hills, his friends,
the bunch, were riding furiously in the opposite direction. And that
was exactly what had been planned beforehand. There was an absolute
certainty in the minds of those who planned that it would be so,
Florence Grace Hallman, for instance, knew just what would furnish
complete occupation for the minds and the hands of the Happy Family
and of every other man in that neighborhood, that afternoon. Perhaps a
claim-shack or two would go up in smoke and some grass would burn. But
when one has a stubborn disposition and is fighting for prestige and
revenge and the success of ones business, a shack or two and a few acres
of prairie grass do not count for very much.

For the rest of that afternoon the boys of the Flying U fought side by
side with hated nesters and told the inexperienced how best to fight.
For the rest of that afternoon no one remembered the Kid, or wondered
why H. J. Owens was not there in the grimy line of fire-fighters who
slapped doggedly at the leaping flames with sacks kept wet from the
barrels of water hauled here and there as they were needed. No one had
time to