The blaze lashed
eagerly over the tops of the trees, the dreaded crown fire of the
North Woods. Where its voice had been a whisper, it became a roar, an
ominous, warning roar to which the loggers gave instant heed and got
themselves and their gear off that timbered slope.
They could do no more. They had beaten it in the valley. Backed by the
lusty pressure of the west wind, it drove them off the hill and went
its wanton way unhindered.
In the flat by Hollister's house the different crews came together.
There was not one of them but drooped with exhaustion. They sat about
on the parched ground, on moss, against tree trunks, and stared up the
hill.
Already the westerly gale had cleared the smoke from the lower valley.
It brought a refreshing coolness off the salt water, and it was also
baring to their sight the spectacular destruction of the forest.
All that area where Hollisters cedars had stood was a red chaos out of
which great flames leaped aloft and waved snaky tongues, blood-red,
molten gold, and from which great billows of smoke poured away to
wrap in obscurity all the hills beyond.
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