Hollister's men remained on the
spot in case they were needed; he and Lawanne and Bland went home.
But that was not the end of the great blaze. Blocked in the valley,
the fire, as if animated by some deadly purpose, crept into the mouth
of a brushy canyon and ran uphill with demoniac energy until it was
burning fiercely over a benchland to the west of Hollister's timber.
The fight began once more. With varying phases it raged for a week.
They would check it along a given line and rest for awhile, thinking
it safely under control. Then a light shift of wind would throw it
across their line of defense, and in a dozen places the forest would
break into flame. The fire worked far up the slope, but its greatest
menace lay in its steady creep westward. Slowly it ate up to the very
edge of Hollister's timber, in spite of all their checks, their
strategy, the prodigious effort of every man to check its vandal
course.
Then the west wind, which had held its breath so long, broke loose
with unrestrained exhalation. It fanned the fire to raging fury, sent
it leaping in yellow sheets through the woods.
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