Night fell. The fire had eaten the heart out of a block half a mile
square. It was growing. A redness brightened the sky. Lurid colors
fluttered above the hottest blaze. A flame would run with incredible
agility up the trunk of a hundred-foot cedar to fling a yellow banner
from the topmost boughs, to color the billowing smoke, the green of
nearby trees, to wave and gleam and shed coruscating spark-showers and
die down again to a dull glow.
Through the short night the work went on. Here and there a man's
weariness grew more than he could bear, and he would lie down to sleep
for an hour or two. They ate food when it was brought to them. Always,
while they could keep their feet, they worked.
Hollister worked on stoically into the following night, keeping
Lawanne near him, because it was all new and exciting to Lawanne, and
Hollister felt that he might have to look out for him if the wind took
any sudden, dangerous shift.
But the mysterious forces of the air were merciful. During the
twenty-four hours there was nothing but little vagrant breezes and the
drafts created by the heat of the fire itself.
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