Through an opening they could
see a fiery glow topped by wavering sheets of flame. They could hear
the crackle and snap of burning wood.
"A forest fire is quite literally hell, isn't it?" Lawanne asked.
Hollister nodded. His eyes were on Bland. The man sat on the ground.
He had a cup of coffee in one hand, a sandwich in the other. He was
blackened almost beyond recognition, and he was viewing with patent
disgust the state of his clothes and particularly of his hands. He
set down his food and rubbed at his fingers with a soiled
handkerchief. Then he resumed eating and drinking. It appeared to him
a matter of necessity rather than a thing from which he derived any
satisfaction. Near him Charlie Mills lay stretched on the moss, his
head pillowed on his folded arms, too weary to eat or drink, even at
Hollister's insistence.
"Dirty job this, eh?" Bland remarked. "I'll appreciate a bath. Phew. I
shall sleep for a week when I get home."
By mid-afternoon of the next day, Sam Carr decided they had the fire
well in hand and so split his forces, leaving half on guard and
letting the others go home to rest.
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