Worcester Democrat and the ledger-enterprise., 1937-11-26
CHAPTER 1S

as tIkC NAAeSA6~~'
doomed and trees crashed to eartn'
Long, ragged lines of men, gasplng
for clean air, waving wet sacks monot
onously, attacked the smoldering
earth.
The air grew hotter, more horrl-
BILE. But suddenly Hammond paused
in his commands and looked up; blink
ink. He put out his hand, swiftly
retrieving it, close to his eyes.
,'Snow!" he shouted. It's started
to snow! Keep going, fellows! We've
got help from upstairs"
An outcry from the gang Joined
his call. Snow! Now the flakes were
thicker and the wind was freshening,
with the peculiar wet chill of ap-
preaching freeze-up "A thrill went
through Hammond, as quickly, how
ever, to change to apprehension.
There was a possibility of fatality
in all this. If gangs should quit be-
lieving a blazzard imminent, and if
it should prove only furry, then the
grueling labors Of forty-eight hours
would be lost. Jack started on cir
cult of his workers.
The host gangs were still at it, the
man-power pumps going faithfully,
pulling the water by easy stages from
the lake into canvas collapsible tanks,
there to be pumped out again to more
tanks and finally to the reaches of
the fire. Here a sack crew worked
diligently, there a gang of ax-men,
their faces muffled in wet cloths, walk
ed amid smoldering embers, that they
might fell threatening trees and bring
an end to the menace of tree-top ex-
plosions. But at last he sighted a
group of idle men at the bank of the
Big Moose.
The forest once had run to the riv-
er's edge here; now it was SCARED
and blackened. Logs still smoked, the
baked earth steamed with the thicken-
ing of the snowfall. Certainly here
was no place to relax labors.
whats wrong with you?" Jack
shouted. "This fire isn't over!"
A Takla Indian turned and with a
short arm gesture motioned him clos
er. Then white man called:
Better come down here"
Hammond obeyed, staring at what
ne saw. On the ground was the char
red body of a man, his clothing burn
ed away.
"Dead?" Hammond asked. There
was a queer tremble of his voice.
"That's the hell of it," fire-fighter
answered. "The poor DEVILS still liv-
ing"
The victim lay face downward, dis
torted mouth open. Hammond went
to his knees and gently turned the
man on his back.
"I thought So" he said jerkily. It
was Bruce Kenning.
Burned, horribly so, the man still
was recognizable. Hammond reached
for his gloves and busted the dirt out
of the mans eyes; they were unin-
jured. Hammond called his name. The
eyes moved, in a manner which hurt
Jack to watch. There was no sound,
not even an action of the lips. They
were too swollen, too cracked; long
fiscsures in the hugely enlarged flesh
gave forth exudations of serum; the
enlarged tongue, pressed tightly mo-
tionless against scared palate, told
the story.
"Some of you fellows better strip
off your coats and cut some poles," he
commanded. make a stretcher and
take him out to the lake. I'll get him
back to camp in the plane"
High in the air, Hammond leaned
over the man, relenting in his hate. It
seemed cruel that Kenning must cling
to life. There was not even the al
deviation of being able to groan; he
made no sound save throaty sort of
gurgling. Only his eyes, fervent, ter
ribly expressive, told of his suffer-
ing.
The airplane dropped down through
the soupy sky to comparatively gen.
tie landing. Hammond opened the
cabin door and leaned out over the
spray of the pontoons, as the plane
TAXED to shore.
The life RATS were beached, emp
ty. Men, and a few women, were lug
ging possessions out of the shadows,
and moving with them through the
driving snow, which steadily became
heavier, toward the blackened ex-
panse that once had been Sapphire
Already few tents were rising. Life