We hailed MacRae when he
reached the foot of the hill, and he came crashing through sage and
buck-brush and threw himself, panting, on the ground.
"The fire," he gasped, "is coming down the gorge. They're cut off at the
other end. They've got to come out here in a little while--or roast. The
smoke would choke a salamander, on top, right now. We can't miss them in
this narrow place, no matter how thick it gets. Look yonder!"
A wavering red line licked its way to the canyon-edge on the east side,
wiped out the grass, and died on the bald rim-rock. Away up the creek a
faint crackling sounded.
"Dry timber," Piegan muttered. "It'll get warm 'round here pretty
directly."
The smoke, blacker now, more dense, hot as a whiff from a baker's oven,
swooped down upon us in choking eddies. It blew out of the canyon-mouth
like a gust from a chimney, rolling over and over in billowy masses. The
banks on either hand were almost invisible. We knew that our time of
waiting was short. The popping of dry, scrubby timber warned us that our
position would soon be untenable. The infernal vapors from the unholy
mixture of green and dry grass, berry bushes, willow scrub, and the
ubiquitous sage, made breathing a misery and brought unwilling tears to
our stinging eyes.
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