Chapter II: Part 2

"Afraid not," came the smothered reply. "I've found the trouble but it's going to take about half an hour to get it fixed."

Curt turned and faced Bill Fenstow.

"That's too long," he warned the director. "The wind's getting worse and that fire's coming fast now. In another half hour this valley will be an inferno. It will be impossible for anyone to live in it."

"Then we'd better start back for the ranch afoot," said the director.

Curt's laugh was hard and thin and Janet, hearing it, thought it was a desperate laugh.

"The fire would overtake us before we could get near the ranch," said Curt. "We've got to make a stand and we might as well make it here."

"What can we do?" It was the director asking the question.

"We can start a backfire and burn off as much ground around here as possible. While some of us are doing that the others can see what they can do in getting the bus fixed. If it's done in time, we'll run for it; if it isn't this is as good a place as any."

Helen came close to Janet.

"Is it that bad?" she whispered.

"I'm afraid it is," admitted Janet. "Scared?"

"Scared to death," confessed Helen.

"So am I," admitted Janet. "But maybe there is something we can do to help the men."

Every member of the company was anxious and willing to do whatever they could and Curt Newsom snapped directions at them. Most of the men raced out into the brush and almost instantly small fires sprang up. They ate their way rapidly through the undergrowth and as they neared the bus itself were beaten out, the men using coats, blankets or whatever article they could find in the bus. In less than ten minutes there was a growing blackened area around the stalled vehicle. Their object was to create a large enough burned over area so that the main wall of the advancing fire would move around them.

Curt told them frankly that the heat would be bad, almost unbearable, but they could live through it.

The ridge from which Janet and Helen had discovered the fire was outlined against a sky shot with crimson for it was quite dark now. Small animals, scurrying before the red menace, were racing past almost constantly.

The fires which had been started around the bus were spreading out in a great circle, eating their way hungrily along the parched ground. In the light from them Janet could see Curt stalking here and there, directing one group and then another, and pausing now to beat down some flame with his blanket.

Both girls felt particularly helpless, for there seemed to be nothing they could do, and Helen, her light shoes torn and thin, was particularly wretched, for her feet were sore and bruised.

A sharp cry came from one of the men who had remained with the driver in an effort to get the bus repaired. Someone leaped into the seat, there was the whir of the starter and the heavy vehicle shook as its powerful motor thundered into motion.

The driver slid out from under the hood. His face was a smear of grease and his shirt was badly torn, for he had been working in close quarters. He stumbled, reeling from fatigue, but someone caught him and lifted him into the bus. Another man sounded the horn and the fire-builders, led by Curt and Billy Fenstow, returned to the bus.

"Think the motor will hold up?" Curt snapped at the driver.

"It ought to, but I can't be sure," was the tired reply.

"What do you want to do?" The cowboy fired the question at the director.

"Get out of here and get out quick!" cried the director.

"Where'll you go?" Curt snapped the question back.

Billy Fenstow stared at him for just a moment.

"Hollywood, of course. Everybody in!"

But Curt laid a restraining hand on the director.

"The road ahead curves back directly into the path of the flame. If we swing around this promontory, we'll be cut off ahead and before we can get back the flames will be over this section of the road. We can only go back."

"Then back to the ranch we go," decided the director, and again he called, "Everybody in!"

Members of the company jammed their way into the bus and Curt took the wheel for the driver was too exhausted to handle the heavy vehicle.

The smoke was thick now and the first flames were licking their way over the crest of the ridge far above them.

With the motor roaring heavily, Curt threw in the gears and swung the big vehicle about in a sharp circle. Then, with the headlights vainly trying to bore through the almost stifling smoke, they raced back down the road.

It was dangerous going, for Curt's vision was cut down to less than three rods, but speed was essential now and they plunged through the smoky night at a reckless pace.

Chapter Eight

THE LINE GOES DEAD

Lights in the interior of the bus were out now for Curt didn't dare run the risk that they might interfere with his vision. The heavy vehicle swayed from side to side as they bounced over the winding road and Janet and Helen clung to each other for protection.

Smoke was swirling across the road and the acrid fumes swept through the open windows of the bus, but there was no time now to close them.

They raced out of the valley they had been in, shot up over a slight rise, and descended into another valley, the glare of the flames being lost to view for the time.

"Think we'll make it?" gasped Helen, clinging tightly to Janet's right arm.

"We've got to," replied Janet. "The last shots for the picture are in the bus."

"I'm not worrying about the picture; it's us," retorted Helen. "My eyes hurt; so do my feet."

Janet couldn't help smiling for Helen was very much matter of fact.

There was a sharp report under the bus, like a gunshot or the backfire of the exhaust. But it was neither and the girls were thrown heavily against the side of the bus as the left rear tire let go.

The heavy machine swayed dangerously with Curt fighting for control. The brakes screamed as they ground to a stop and Curt leaped out to survey the damage. The driver followed him and then Billy Fenstow followed.

The driver turned on his flashlight and Janet could hear Curt's muttered exclamation of disgust.

"We can change; we've got a spare," the driver said.

"We've got to and we'll have to work fast," snapped Curt.

Under the lashing directions of the cowboy star, other members of the company turned to and lent a hand. Tools were taken out, a big jack was placed under the rear axle, and the work started.

From somewhere behind came the ominous roar of the fire and the sky behind the ridge they had just topped crimsoned. Helen, her thin oxfords badly cut, shifted miserably from one foot to another and longed for a hot bath in which to soak her aching feet.

While Curt and several assistants wrestled with the task of getting the flat tire off, the driver managed to get the spare wheel down from its rack at the rear.

"Not much air in it," he grumbled.

"There never is," snapped Curt, "but you know how to use a pump."

Billy Fenstow seized the pump, fastened the hose to the valve on the tire, and bent his tired body to the task of increasing the air pressure in the big tire.

It was a tedious, wracking job, and the men alternated, working at top speed for a minute, then giving way to another fresher one.

Curt, scanning the horizon above the ridge, urged them to greater haste.

"Fire's getting close," he warned. "We've got to get under way."

Billy Fenstow unfastened the pump and Curt seized the big steel wheel with its huge casing. Other willing hands helped him get it on the axle. Anxious fingers sped the bolts into place and they tightened them as rapidly as possible.

"Get going!" Curt yelled at the driver.

"How about the jack?"

"Never mind that. Throw her in gear and she'll come off. That fire's coming fast now."

As though in answer to Curt's warning, the flames shot over the top of the nearest ridge and started down. They seemed to be racing now with the speed of a greyhound, leaping from thicket to thicket with unbelievable rapidity.

Janet and Helen, clinging together on the back seat, watched it with fascinated eyes. The fire was a living, advancing thing that might surround and swallow them in its flaming greed. The thought sent a deadening chill through Janet and for a moment she closed her eyes to the red spectacle.

The motor of the bus roared again as Curt trod heavily on the starter. The big vehicle pulsated with power and there was the crash of gears as they lurched ahead and the left rear wheel dropped off the jack.

Like a frightened elephant the bus leaped forward, its headlights once more boring through the smoke-laden night air.

Curt drove with reckless abandon, tramping the accelerator down almost to the floor boards. His passengers were flung from one side of the lunging vehicle to another, but they knew that only in speed now lay their hope for salvation and none of them cried out as their bruised bodies were flung back and forth.

Janet and Helen managed to wedge themselves in a corner where, by clinging together, they could escape with only a minimum of bouncing about.

Suddenly the road straightened out and the smoke thinned. Janet recognized where they were. It was the last half mile which led back to the ranch where they had completed shooting the new picture only that afternoon.

They had outdistanced the racing flames and Curt reduced the wild speed of the bus. In less than five minutes they swung into the broad yard of the ranch, but there were no lights in the house nor in the bunkhouse.

Curt blasted sharply on the horn, but there was no sign or sound of life anywhere.

"Looks like everyone's sound asleep," said Billy Fenstow, who was rubbing his bruises gingerly.

"They've probably taken to the hills," replied Curt.

They unloaded and entered the ranchhouse. Curt lighted a lamp and it was evident from the disorder in the rooms that the owners had fled hastily. The corrals were open and all of the stock had been turned loose.

Janet and Helen stopped beside the water tank. Their throats were dry and tasted heavily of smoke so they drank deeply of the cool, fresh water.

Curt, pausing for a moment, stuck his whole head in the tank, and then drank from the cup the girls offered him. As he gulped down the water he watched the crimson horizon northwest of the ranch.

"Looks like we're going to be safe here unless the wind swings around a little more," he observed.

"I'm worried about the folks. They know what time we were going to start back and they'll be frantic when they hear about the fire," said Helen.

"Phone line may still be up," said Curt. "Go in the house and see if you can get a call through."

Helen turned and hastened toward the house while Curt rejoined the men, who were staying near the bus. The driver was buried under the hood again, making sure that there would be no recurrence of their previous engine trouble.

Janet followed Helen into the ranchhouse. The phone, an old-fashioned wall instrument, was in the dining room. There was a large plate of cookies, evidently left from supper, on the table, and neither girl could resist helping herself to several. Helen munched them as she cranked the telephone and listened for an answer from the operator in the nearest town. At last the response came.

Helen, talking rapidly, gave her father's address and phone number in Hollywood. In less than five minutes the call was through and she heard her father's voice on the other end of the wire.

"Hello, Dad. This is Helen."

"Where are we? Back at the ranch. No, we're safe enough. The bus broke down and we had to turn back when the fire cut us off.

"Now don't worry, Dad. Curt Newsom says he thinks the fire will swing around us. If it doesn't, we can take to the hills back of the ranch. We'll come through all right. Tell Mother not to worry.

"What's that----?"

Helen repeated the question, then looked blankly at Janet.

"See if you can hear him," she urged and Janet took the receiver.

"Hello, Mr. Thorne," she said. But there was no answer. She repeated the question and this time when there was no answer mechanically hung up the receiver.

"The line's dead," she told Helen. "The fire must have brought down the poles."

The girls stared hard at each other through smoke-rimmed eyes. The telephone had given them a sense of security, a feeling of contact with the outside world. Now they were cut off with the flames behind them and only the rugged hills ahead.

Chapter Nine

THE FIRE SWEEPS ON

When Janet and Helen returned to the spacious ranch yard, they found the men in the company gathered in a council of war near the bus. They were debating whether to risk remaining at the ranch or attempt to push on into the hills and onto higher ground.

Billy Fenstow felt the ranch would be safe and was loath to attempt to go any further, but Curt Newsom, who had been watching the shifting clouds of crimson, was wary.

"A little more and the wind will shift enough to bring the fire down into this valley. Once it's here it will travel like a race horse and we'll never reach safety," he warned.

The director pointed to several heavy steel containers which held the last of the shots for "Water Hole."

"Who's going to lug those through the hills?" he demanded.

"We could take turns," retorted Curt. "Here's a better one. Are those cans watertight?" He shot the question at one of the cameramen.

"They're safe enough, all right," he replied.

"Then let's fasten wires to the handles and lower them into the well here. If we have to run for it, we'll not be bothered with these heavy containers and we'll know the last shots are safe."

Billy Fenstow agreed that Curt's suggestion was an excellent one and they scattered in search of a coil of wire. One was found near the bunkhouse. It was fastened to one of the containers and the heavy steel receptacle was lowered into the well. The wire was cut and the upper end securely fastened to a timber. Then the operation was repeated, the second can being lowered until it reached the bottom of the well. Curt snipped the wire with a pair of pliers and fastened the end with the first one.

Janet had been watching the skyline intently. Perhaps she was simply over-wrought, but she felt sure that the crimson glow had brightened as though the fire was nearer their own valley.

"Watch the skyline," she urged Helen. "See if the glow is brightening."

Helen peered through the half-light. Then she shook her head.

"I can't be sure, but I think the fire must be nearer," she said. "Had we better tell Curt?"

"Yes. He'll want to know."

The girls called the lanky cowboy aside and Janet confided her fears to him.

Curt spun on his heels and stared into the flame-rent sky.

"Maybe I'm imagining things, but it looks bad," he muttered. Then he called Billy Fenstow over to him and the rotund little director agreed that the fire must be getting nearer.

Curt sniffed the smoke. "It's getting thicker. We'd better get out of here."

"What about the bus?" demanded the director.

"We'll use that as far as we can. There's a trail that goes at least a mile back in the hills. After that we'll have to go on afoot."

Orders snapped from Curt's lips. Back into the bus piled the company, Janet and Helen were among the last and they stopped long enough beside the well for deep drinks of the cool water. It might be many an hour before they would have such an opportunity again.

Curt took the wheel for he knew the trail into the hills. The motor roared with a heavy song of power and they were away once more, fleeing before the ever-hungry flames.

Janet and Helen sank back on the cushions of the rear seat. The trail was soft and sandy and although the bus lurched heavily at times, they had an opportunity to relax a little.

Helen slipped off her oxfords and rubbed her aching feet.

"Oh, for a good, hot bath," she moaned. "My feet will never be the same again."

"Mine ache a little even with my boots on," admitted Janet. She would have liked to have slipped out of her boots and wriggled her toes but they were too hard to lace up again.

Curt was driving with a desperate intentness as the going became more difficult. The trail had faded into two thin tracks and it was rougher now.

Sharp rocks protruded and at any moment a tire might give way. But they kept on boring into the hills. The engine was working hard now as they ascended a grade and Janet looked back through the broad, rear window of the bus.

The valley they had just left was plainly visible and topping the ridge above the ranchhouse were the first racing tongues of flame. They had started just in time.

Helen turned around and together the girls watched the fire skip down the slope. When the scene was finally shut off by their own descent into another valley, the fire was almost to the ranchhouse and Janet felt sick at heart as she thought of the destruction which was inevitable for the friendly, rambling old structure.

The trail they had been following faded completely away and Curt brought the bus to a stop.

"Want to get out and walk or shall we go on in the bus?"

The director's reply came quickly.

"Where can we go?"

Curt shrugged his shoulder.

"You know as well as I do. We've got to go someplace; anywhere to stay ahead of the fire."

"Then jam the bus along as far as it will go," ordered the director.

"Who's going to pay for the damage?" demanded the driver.

"Never mind that," snapped Curt. "The first thing is to save our own necks. Then we'll worry about the bus."

"But I'll have to report what happened to the company."

"You'll be lucky to get back and make a report," retorted the cowboy.

They lurched into motion once more, traveling almost blindly now, and much slower.

Curt felt his way around clumps of underbrush and outcroppings of rock. The wind, swirling along with them, carried a heavy curtain of smoke.

They were rolling down a long slope when a front tire let go with an explosion like that from a young cannon and Curt twisted desperately at the wheel, fighting for control of the big vehicle. The driver jumped to help him and between the two of them they brought it to a halt without an upset.

Curt jumped out to survey the damage and returned almost at once.

"No chance of repairing the tire even if there was time," he announced. "We'll see how much further we can go."

With both Curt and the bus driver clinging to the wheel, they started on, though traveling at a painfully slow pace.

At the bottom of the valley they stopped, a thin ribbon of a stream blocking their way.

Once more the cowboy lunged out into the smoke-filled night to stamp through the shallow waters of the stream. The bottom seemed fairly firm and Curt returned and took the wheel.

"We'll try to go through, but everyone unload. No use to carry any excess weight."

The entire company piled out of the bus and watched Curt start across the stream. He made good progress, the front wheels climbing out on the other bank and for a moment it looked like he was going across. Then the sand gave way and the back wheels churned up a spray of sand and dirty water.

Curt snapped off the ignition and jumped out of the bus.

"We're stalled for keeps," he informed them, "but this is about as good a place as we'll find. We'll start backfires and then when it gets bad, we can get under a bank along this creek. There'll be water to help us here."

Under Curt's dynamic orders, half a dozen backfires were started, the men working like mad to clear away the underbrush and destroy all inflammable material near the creek bank where they had decided to make their stand.

There was little that Janet and Helen could do, but they insisted on seizing old coats, wetting them in the stream, and using them to beat out the flames of the backfires when they had spread far enough.

The burned area widened rapidly, but Curt spurred his workers on with renewed pleas and cajoling. One of the cameramen, slipping away to the bus for a minute, trained his camera on the scene and started grinding away. The crest of the hill above them was now outlined in a strong, crimson and the shadowy forms of the workers were visible as they hastened from one backfire to another. Janet saw the cameraman working, but she knew their work had progressed far enough so the absence of one man would not make a great deal of difference. Then, too, she knew that he might get some shots which would be invaluable in some film needing good fire sequences.

Fortunately the bank they had selected had been heavily undercut by the stream and would afford them protection. Curt set several of the men to the task of digging further into the bank and they worked with improvised tools taken from the bus.

Janet and Helen soaked the coats they had been using again and returned to the task of beating down the backfires. Curt joined them for a minute.

"Better get back under the bank. This thing is going to come down this slope like a hurricane," he warned.

"We'll wait until the others start down," said Janet, but he took their coats and shoved them toward the creek.

"Get going," he ordered, and his voice was firm.

They obeyed, for already the fire was starting down the slope and the girls hastened to the creek bed.

The water was shallow, not more than six inches deep in any place and the bottom was sandy. Helen slipped off her torn shoes and wiggled her toes in the cool luxury of the water. Just then she forgot to worry all about the fire in the pleasant delight of having her feet comfortable if even for the moment.

Men who had been working on the backfires came tumbling over the bank, falling and splashing into the water, but no one minded being dirty or wet.

Janet could hear a roaring that sounded like the beat of scores of kettle drums--a roaring that was increasing in intensity and furore.

Splashing along the sandy bottom, she came to a lower place in the bank where she could look up the slope.

A solid wall of flame topped the crest, then swept down with an amazing rapidity. The air was hot and searing like a blast from an over-heated furnace.

A handful of men were still grouped around Curt, working until the last moment to spread the backfire as far as possible.

Helen, padding through the shallow water, joined Janet and they watched the awesome scene together. The roar of the onrushing fire increased and waves of heat beat against their faces. Janet knew that it must be terrific out on the slope and she wondered when Curt would lead his men in.

One of them, gasping and choking, ran toward the creek, lunged past them, and hurled himself face downward in the water.

Seconds later Janet heard Curt's cry and the rest of the men, with Curt and Billy Fenstow bringing up the rear, ran toward the creek bank.

The director stumbled and fell heavily and the cowboy bent down and picked him up. Carrying the director in his arms, Curt, staggering under the extra burden, ran on. One of the men leaped over the bank to help and together they eased the little director into the water.

Curt turned instantly and watched the rushing flames. The roar was so loud now that it was impossible to communicate with one another except by shouting and Curt ran from one to another, shouting and pounding them down under the bank where they would get the utmost protection.

Reaching out he jerked Janet and Helen sharply and jostled them under the bank.

"Get under there and stay under. Put a wet cloth to your nose and mouth. Don't breath any more than you have to."

Neither one of them possessed handkerchiefs, for these articles had gone astray long before. One sleeve of Janet's dress had been ripped and she tore the whole thing out, ripped it again, and gave Helen one half of it. They dipped the cloth in the creek, squeezed a little of the water out, and applied the makeshift mask to their faces.

Burning brands, carried along by the wind, were dropping in the creek now, hissing and sputtering as they struck the water where they soon became blackened embers.

Janet, turning toward the opposite bank, saw a clump of underbrush burst into flame. The fire, whipped by the rising wind, spread out rapidly. Venturing a peep above the creek bank, a searing blast of heat struck her forehead and she could feel her hair curl. One glance was enough, for a towering wall of flame seemed to be rising straight into the sky.

Janet ducked back under the protection of the bank and dipped the cloth into the water again. She straightened up again and glanced toward the bus. The cameraman who had been grinding away steadily had deserted the bus and was dragging his camera with him. He reached the shelter of the bank and other willing hands helped him set up the machine in a position that was well protected.

It was impossible to hear now and Janet felt Helen crowding close toward her. They looked at each other through staring eyes--eyes that reflected the inward fear that gripped their hearts. The heat was stifling now. The cloths they had soaked with water were drying with incredible rapidity and Janet remembered Curt's warning to breath as lightly as possible. Helen, shoeless, was standing in the water. A hot ember dropped beside them and struck one of Helen's legs before it had cooled. She winced at the pain, but there was no escape.

It seemed as though the entire opposite slope of the valley suddenly burst into flame and the intensity of the heat redoubled. Janet held her breath and dipped down into the stream to wet the cloth again. Helen did likewise a moment later and they gained some relief.

Billy Fenstow and Curt Newsom were crouched beside the cameraman who was still grinding away at the red terror.

Again the cloths on their faces dried and their breaths came in great choking gasps. Janet felt as though her heat-seared lungs would burst. She wanted to cry, but the tears were whipped away by the hot blasts.

The flame on the opposite slope seemed to reach a new peak of intensity and the water at their feet ran crimson. Then the roar lessened, the peak of the fire was past.

Janet, through smoke-rimmed eyes, saw it sweep over the far crest of the valley. Scattered fires were left burning in its wake, but the main advance of the fire had rushed on seeking new conquests.

As the red glow ebbed, they crept out from under the bank and dropped with abandon into the shallow waters. It mattered little that embers, some of them still hot, were drifting in the stream, or that the water itself was now lukewarm--it was a haven from the horror that had just passed.

Chapter Ten

A WELCOME RESCUE

Janet couldn't even guess how many minutes they rested on the stream bed with the water washing away the aches in their weary bodies. As usual, Curt took the initiative when he had regained a portion of the abundant vitality that flowed through his veins.

The cowboy sat up and surveyed the scene. A dozen fires were still burning in the valley and the horizon ahead of them, tinged in crimson, marked the passing of the fire demon.

Billy Fenstow, digging sand out of his ears and sputtering heartily, was the first to speak.

"Curt, how in thunder are we ever going to get out of here?"

The cowboy shook his head.

"Walk," he moaned, looking down at the once fancy boots which had never been intended for the heavy work in which they had been used that night.

Billy Fenstow groaned in anguish.

"Then I guess I'll just settle down and wait for a flood to come along and wash me down the valley or until I come to some culvert where I'll stick."

The cameraman who had ground away steadily through the thick of the raging flames crept over to his machine. It had been subject to terrific heat and there was only a small chance that the negative had come through without serious damage.

"How many feet did you shoot?" asked the director.

The photographer squinted at the footage indicator on the camera, but there was not enough light to note the figures.

"If the film isn't ruined they'll be the best scenes of a blaze like this that have ever been filmed," he predicted.

Janet struggled into a sitting position and looked around. Her eyes sought the bus, with only faint hopes that the vehicle had come through unscathed. If it had, it would offer their one hope of escape for she felt that repairs might be made to the tires and if not, maybe they could limp along.

But her hopes were doomed to disappointment. The bus was a glowing mass of steel. Fire had swept over it, igniting the upholstery and burning out the entire interior of the bus. It was a hollow shell with gaping windows.

Curt Newsom stood up.

"There's no use sitting around here wondering what we'll do," he said. "If a couple of the boys will come along, I'll start back to the trail and we'll keep going until we find someone or can reach a telephone."

Two other cowboys joined Curt.

"The rest of you might follow us and get back as far as the ranch. Maybe there'll be a little drinking water left in that well," advised Curt as he started up the trail, hobbling painfully on his twisted boots.

Helen looked at her oxfords. They were in even worse shape than Curt's boots.

"I guess I'll have to stay here," she said, half to herself and half to Janet. "I'd never make it back to the ranch."

Janet picked up the water soaked piece of cloth she had used as a mask to shield her face.

"Wrap this around one foot and use your piece for your other foot. Then slip your oxford on loosely. That ought to ease the pain."

Helen looked grateful and tried the suggestion at once. She wrapped the damp cloth around as tightly as possible and then pulled on her shoes. It was a snug fit, but there was a soft cushion for her bruised feet to rest upon. She stood up and tried walking.

"That's much better. Thanks a lot, Janet."

Billy Fenstow took charge then.

"We'll start for the ranch and go as far as we can," he decided. "There may be some shelter there and we're in no condition to stay out any longer than necessary."

With the director in the van, the singed and tired band started back for the ranch. After a short distance they struck the trail. It was faint, but they managed to follow it without too much difficulty.

Hot blasts of air seemed to sweep down from all sides and breathing became a painful exercise again. Janet wished that she might have just one cool, sweet breath of air--just one.

Helen stumbled and Janet reached out and caught her companion before she fell.

"All right?" asked Janet anxiously, for Helen was not of as sturdy stock as she.

"I'll make it," replied Helen, the words coming from tight-set lips.

But Janet was not so sure that Helen could do it. They fell further and further behind the others, but at last they topped the final ridge and looked down in the valley where the ranch had been, where they had filmed so many scenes of "Water Hole," the new picture.

It was too dark to see the outlines of the ranchhouse but Janet could discern several large, glowing piles of embers and she knew that even the buildings at the ranch had been destroyed by the fire. Perhaps the well was still filled with pure sweet water. Her throat seemed drier at the thought and she turned her full attention to Helen, who needed a supporting arm for the final, down hill lap of their journey.

The cowboys were the first to reach the ranchyard and Janet could hear them ripping the cover off the well. There was a shout ahead of them.

"The water's okay. Hurry up!" It was one of the cowboys, and the news gave them the courage to quicken their lagging steps.

Billy Fenstow handed Janet a blackened dipper, but she insisted that Helen take the first drink. There was plenty of water and they all drank their fill while Billy Fenstow scrambled around the timbers above the well hunting for the wires which had been fastened to the film containers they had lowered into the well. He found them at last, but decided they were safer in the water than any place else.

"What about going on?" asked one of the cowboys.

"No use in that. Someone had used the dipper before we got here, so that means Curt is up ahead of us and he's traveling much faster than we could. We'll do better to wait right here where they'll find us. Try and make yourselves comfortable."

But the director's last words were of little help. The air was still dry and searing and there was no shelter anywhere. Fires still glowed all over the valley and little clouds of smoke swept around them.

Janet and Helen walked over to the ranchhouse, but the embers were glowing so brightly that it was impossible to get very close.

"I ache all over," confessed Helen. "When I finally get into bed I'm going to sleep the clock around."

"Count me in on that program," nodded Janet. "Well, we might as well sit down and keep as comfortable as possible."

But they went back to the well for another drink before trying to relax on the ground.

The men were gathered a short distance away, talking in low voices about their harrowing escape. They conversed in monotones that soon lulled the girls' tired minds and before she knew it Janet found herself dozing. They were fitful little naps, broken with sudden thoughts of the fire. Then she would snap to complete wakefulness, only to have her fatigue overcome her again. She had dozed perhaps half a dozen times when the increasing chill of the air awakened her.

Helen, curled up on the ground, was breathing steadily and deeply and had not noticed the change in the atmosphere.

Janet scanned the horizon. There was no scarlet in the northwest now--only a dense blackness that seemed to be growing thicker. The southeastern sky was still vividly flame seared.

The men had ceased their talking, but an occasional glow of a cigarette marked the dark huddle where they had gathered. A slight snore could be heard and Janet attributed it to their tubby little director. A flash of lightning illumined the mounting clouds and Janet shivered at the thought of a storm sweeping down on them after the fire.

Helen must have felt the shiver run through Janet's body for she stirred sleepily.

"I'll sleep another hour," she mumbled, and Janet knew her companion thought they were back home. There was no need to awaken Helen now. She might just as well get as much relaxation as possible.

Helen slipped back into a deep sleep and Janet kept a lone vigil. The clouds swept higher and a distant rumble of thunder came down from the hills.

The men were moving restlessly now and Janet could hear Billy Fenstow berating the weather. But there was nothing they could do about it except complain a little and then hope that someone would reach them before the coming storm broke.

Janet wondered how far Curt and the two cowboys who had gone with him had been able to travel. Perhaps their aching feet had forced them to stop. But, knowing Curt, she had a feeling that he would get through and bring help to them as soon as possible.

Helen sat up, rubbing her blood-shot eyes.

"More fire?" she asked as the rumble of the thunder smote her ears.

"Well, not quite that bad. Just a thunderstorm."

Helen shivered. "We'll catch our death of cold," she groaned, and Janet had to admit that Helen's fears were not unwarranted. After the heat of the fire and the fatigue, they would be excellent candidates for severe colds or anything else that happened along.

Several of the men who had been hunting around the ranchyard returned to the well.

"Can't even find half a board," one of them reported. "The fire swept everything clean."

Billy Fenstow turned to Janet and explained.

"I had a couple of the boys out looking for some boards or anything we could use to build a shelter for you girls."

"That was thoughtful," replied Janet, "but we'll get along all right."

Billy grumbled to himself. He wasn't so sure. The girls had stood a lot already and there was a limit to their endurance.

A patter of rain struck them, the drops sizzling as they came down on the remains of the ranchhouse.

Janet's spirits dropped and for the first time in weeks she felt like having a good, old-fashioned crying spell, but there wasn't any pillow where she could bury her head and she didn't want to cry in front of the men in the company.

The valley was hushed for a moment. Even the thunder was silent in the breathless pause that often comes just before a mid-summer storm vents its fury.

It was during this pause that Helen, watching the hills below the storm clouds, caught a flash of light. It was too low for lightning and she gripped Janet's right arm.

"There's a car coming!" she cried.

Janet turned hopefully and looked in the direction Helen pointed, but there was no sign of light and she heard an involuntary sob escape from Helen.

Then it came again, two twin beams of light cutting around a hill. Helen was right! A car was coming and Janet, unashamed, felt the tears flowing freely down her cheeks.

Billy Fenstow was talking to himself.

"I knew that lanky cowboy would do it," he said, repeating it over and over as though he were a human talking machine, stuck on a single note.

A horn sounded a warning note as the oncoming vehicle swung into the ranchyard just as the sky opened and the first sweep of rain struck the valley. Forgetting all else, they ran toward the machine, which proved to be a hulking truck, with a covered top.

Janet and Helen reached the rear. Someone reached down and pulled them under the shelter of the top. A flashlight blazed into their faces and a strong arm encircled Janet's shoulder. It was Helen's father and they knew that their worries for that eventful night were over.

Chapter Eleven

NEW PLANS

The sky seemed to open wide and a great torrent of rain descended on the heat-ridden earth, but Janet and Helen, in the shelter of the truck, were safe.

"All right, honey?" demanded Helen's father, and, assured that his daughter was no more than bruised and weary, he turned to Janet.

"How about you, Janet?" he asked.

"Tired and dirty--that's all," she managed to smile.

"Here's blankets," he said, picking two off a pile on the floor of the truck. "Throw these around your shoulders."

The air was chill now and the girls obeyed without hesitation for their own clothes were in a bad state of disrepair.

"How did you find us?" asked Helen when they were seated on the floor of the truck, and bouncing along toward the main highway which would take them back to Hollywood.

"Curt Newsom got through. We were frantic after the line went dead when you were talking to us from the ranchhouse. We were coming in the truck and met Curt and the other two cowboys along the trail. From what they told us we knew that none of you could stand it to be out in the storm and we made all possible speed."

"How's mother?" asked Helen.

"Terribly worried." He turned toward Janet. "We'll phone your folks as soon as we get home. The fact that a film company was caught in the center of the fire was broadcast over a national chain and I'm afraid they may be gravely alarmed."

"I'll call them at once," agreed Janet.

They talked at length of their experiences and at last Helen's father turned to Fenstow.

"Lose all of your last-day takes?" he asked.

"Don't believe we lost a one," replied the other director. "We put the film cans in the well. One of my boys shot some swell scenes of the fire if the camera didn't get too hot and ruin the negative."

"Then I suppose you'll use a fire in your next western?" chuckled Henry Thorne.

"Can't say," replied Billy Fenstow. "That will be up to Janet."

"Why Janet?"

"She's going to do my next scenario."

"You're not joking?"

"Of course not. I've gone kind of stale and I thought she could inject some fresh material. At least she's going to get a fair chance to see just what kind of a film story she can turn out."

"Then I'm predicting that she'll do a good job if it's anything like the caliber of her usual work," replied Helen's father.

"Don't count on me too much," cautioned Janet. "This is a new field and I may get in so deep I'll never get anything creditable."

The truck swung around a sharp curve. Ahead of them was a blaze of light from the headlights of a score of cars which were parked along the paved road. Raucous squawks of horns greeted the approaching truck.

It was still raining hard, but a trim figure, clad in a raincoat, detached itself from a group in front of one of the cars and hurried toward the truck.

"Hello mother. Here I am," called Helen. "Both of us are all right."

She jumped from the truck and into her mother's arms. After a brief embrace, her mother spoke quickly.

"We mustn't stand here. You'll catch cold. Here, get under my coat and we'll hurry to the car. Janet, you stay in the truck until we can pull along here."

Henry Thorne looked down at Janet.

"Pretty tired?"

"Just about all in," she confessed and she found it hard to muster a smile.

"Had enough of Hollywood?" he asked quietly.

Janet looked up quickly.

"I don't know, honestly I don't. The way I feel right now all I want is sleep and lots of it."

He nodded understandingly and just then the car drove up beside the truck and they jumped down and entered it.

Henry Thorne took the wheel while his wife and the girls made themselves comfortable in the back seat. Mrs Thorne very wisely made no effort to ask them about the events of the night, but tucked them in with blankets and before the car had gone half a mile both girls were sound asleep.

The next thing Janet knew someone was shaking her shoulder. It was Mrs. Thorne.

"We're home and you can be in bed in five minutes," she said. Janet rubbed a little of the sleep from her tired eyes--just enough so she could see to get into the house.

Helen, walking ahead of her, moaned now at every step, for her feet had been badly bruised by the stones.

Mrs. Thorne hurried ahead to run a tub of hot water while her husband drove the car around to the garage. With Mrs. Thorne helping them, the girls were soon in fresh pajamas.

Janet decided on a warm shower and Helen followed her under the spray. Then Mrs. Thorne treated the bruises on Helen's feet and both girls piled into bed.

"Sleep as long as you want to," she said as she snapped off the light.

Janet didn't even hear the click of the switch. She dropped into a deep slumber, one so heavy that there were no dreams of fires and storms.

When she finally awoke it was broad daylight. Fresh, sweet air filled their room. There was no smell of smoke, no threat of storm, and she wondered, for a moment, if she could have been dreaming about the night before. It was just possible that it had been a nightmare. Then she stretched and the aching muscles of her legs told her that indeed it had not been a nightmare.

Janet looked over to Helen's bed. Her friend was still sleeping heavily so Janet slipped out of bed quietly, donned her dressing gown, and went down to the bathroom.

Mrs. Thorne heard her moving about and looked in for a minute.

"We telephoned your folks last night," she said. "They'd heard the radio broadcast and were greatly relieved when we told them both of you were safe."

"Oh, thanks so much. I was so sleepy I forgot all about it," confessed Janet.

"Helen getting up?" asked Mrs. Thorne.

"No, she's sleeping soundly."

"Then come in to lunch without going back to dress," said Helen's mother.

"You mean breakfast?" asked Janet.

Mrs. Thorne smiled. "No, I mean lunch, and a very late lunch at that. It's well after two o'clock now."

Janet, finishing her shower, rubbed her body briskly with a heavy towel, and slipped the dressing gown on over her pajamas. Then she joined Mrs. Thorne in the dining room.

"The morning papers made quite a story of it," said Mrs. Thorne, handing Janet a copy.

A bold headline was blazoned across the entire top of the front page:

"MOVIE COMPANY ESCAPES FIRE!"

Then, in terse, action sentences, the story told of the narrow escape of Billy Fenstow's western unit. Janet found Helen's name and her own mentioned. She was glad that the story gave Curt Newsom full credit for the cool-headed work which had saved their lives. Curt deserved every word of it.

Helen joined them a few minutes later, limping a little for her feet were still aching from the bruises.

The girls passed the remainder of the afternoon resting and at dinner that night became involved in a serious discussion with Helen's father and mother.

After the dessert, Henry Thorne pushed back his chair and looked at them quizzically.

"Summer's about over," was his opening remark and Janet knew that he had something on his mind. She had a hunch that she could guess what the trend of the conversation was to be.

"You girls made up your minds what you want to do?"

He seemed to have his eyes fixed on Janet, as though looking to her for the decision which would guide Helen.

"First of all I want to try to do the story Billy Fenstow asked me to do," retorted Janet. "After that I think I'll have had enough of Hollywood."

"Getting tired of being an actress?"

"Not at all, I'm just realizing my limitations and after all, I do want more education--the type of broadening education that I can get in a university."

Henry Thorne swung toward his own daughter.

"What do you think, Helen?"

"Why, I haven't made up my mind yet, Dad. I like Hollywood, I've been having a grand time, but I guess I've never really thought of staying on here definitely. It was understood from the first that this was just a glorious vacation and that when summer ended Mother and I would go back to Clarion and I'd go to college."

"I expect that's right," nodded her father. "It did start out to be just a vacation proposition and you girls can make it that if you want, but I've a new plan that may appeal to you. How would you like to go to Radio City in New York for several weeks?"

Chapter Twelve

THE PREVIEW

The girls stared hard at Henry Thorne. It was so like him to toss off an important statement in an off-hand manner that it left them almost gasping for breath.

"Why, Dad, what do you mean?" demanded Helen.

"Just what I said," smiled her father. "How would you and Janet like to go to Radio City for several weeks?"

"I'd like it fine," put in Janet quickly and Helen chorused her own agreement.

"Now tell us what it's all about," insisted Helen.

"I'm a little vague on it myself," admitted her father, "except that the studio is planning an extensive promotion stunt to boost my last picture, 'Kings of the Air,' and the general manager, Mr. Rexler, is going to send a part of the cast to New York City where they'll put on a radio drama based on the action in the new picture. The whole idea is to whet the appetites of the film fans by giving them just enough of the story over the air to make them rush to the nearest theater and see the actual picture."

"But where do we come in?" asked Janet. "We were only very minor members of the cast."

"True enough, but some of the principals are now working on other pictures and it would be impractical to release them and send them east for a promotional stunt so some of the lesser members of the company will make the trip."

"Maybe we're lucky to be lesser members," smiled Helen. "When do we start?"

"I don't know exactly. The release date for 'Kings' is next month, so I expect you'll leave here in a few weeks."

"That will give me just time enough to try the scenario for Billy Fenstow," said Janet. "Maybe I'd better start work on it tonight."

"You look pretty tired. Better wait until morning when you'll be thoroughly rested," advised Helen's father.

They adjourned to the living room where they gathered around a large table and discussed possible story plots that Janet could use. She made several notes and then, with Helen, retired early.

A second night of sleep found the girls feeling greatly refreshed. Henry Thorne loaned Janet his own portable typewriter and she set it on a low table beside the swimming pool, found some yellow copy paper in the house, rolled a fresh sheet into the typewriter, and sat down waiting for an idea to pop into her head.

"Hello, author!" said someone from behind her and she swung about to face Curt Newsom, who had walked up unheralded.

"Hello, Curt. Sit down. My, but I'm glad to see you. Are you all right after the fire?"

The cowboy smiled. "As right as I'll ever be. I was scared half to death that night. Say, I saw Billy Fenstow this morning. The picture's all together now and they're going to screen it at the Bijou down the street after the regular feature. Better be there tonight."

"I'll be there in fear and trembling," smiled Janet.

"Oh, I wouldn't feel that way about it. I think you did a lot better than most of the girls I've had in the company."

"Thanks, Curt. That was nice of you to say that, but I realize I have very definite limitations as an actress."

"Well, I'm not so hot as an actor," he admitted. "About all I have to do is stick on a horse and shoot a gun loaded with blank cartridges."

"That isn't all and you know it," reproved Janet.

Curt looked at the typewriter and the blank sheet of paper.

"I'm keeping you from your work. I only dropped in to tell you about the preview tonight. I've got to get along."

"I'm supposed to be generating ideas for Mr. Fenstow's next script," confessed Janet, "but the mental generator seems to have gone on a strike."

"What's the story going to be about?"

"You guess," smiled Janet.