smoke
were lifting from the valley, and before him the sky was darkened.
Olsen's hill was as if under a cloud. No flames showed anywhere, but in
places the line of smoke appeared to be approaching.

"It's a thousand to one against us," he said, bitterly, and looked at
his watch. He was amazed to see that three hours had passed since he had
given orders to the men. He hurried back to the house. No one was there
except the old servant, who was wringing her hands and crying that the
house would burn. Throwing the cakes of phosphorus into a
watering-trough, Kurt ran into the kitchen, snatched a few biscuits, and
then made for the fields, eating as he went.

He hurried down a lane that bordered the big wheat-field. On this side
was fallow ground for half the length of the section, and the other half
was ripe barley, dry as tinder, and beyond that, in line with the
burning fields, a quarter-section of blasted wheat. The men were there.
Kurt saw at once that other men with horses and machines were also
there. Then he recognized Olsen and two other of his neighbors. As he
ran up he was equally astounded and out of breath, so that he could not
speak. Old Dorn sat with gray head bowed on his hand.

"Hello!" shouted Olsen. His grimy face broke into a hard smile. "Fires
all over! Wheat's burnin' like prairie grass! Them chips of phosphorus
are sure from hell!... We've come over to help."

"You--did! You left--your fields!" gasped Kurt.

"Sure. They're not much to leave. And we're goin' to save this section
of yours or bust tryin'!... I sent my son in his car, all over, to hurry
men here with horses, machines, wagons."

Kurt was overcome. He could only wring Olsen's hand. Here was an answer
to one of his brooding, gloomy queries. Something would be gained, even
if the wheat was lost. Kurt had scarcely any hope left.

"What's to be done?" he panted, hoarsely. In this extremity Olsen seemed
a tower of strength. This sturdy farmer was of Anderson's breed, even if
he was a foreigner. And he had fought fires before.

"If we have time we'll mow a line all around your wheat," replied Olsen.

"Reckon we won't have time," interposed Jerry, pointing to a smoke far
down in the corner of the stunted wheat. "There's a fire startin'."

"They'll break out all over," said Olsen, and he waved a couple of his
men away. One had a scythe and the other a long pole with a wet burlap
bag tied on one end. They hurried toward the little cloud of s