Chapter XIV: Prairie Fires

The second evening after leaving Battleford, the party camped inside a huge but distant arc of fire. All day the sun had been almost hidden by smoke, though the fire itself was not visible. A hot, dry wind from the south-west, which had licked up all moisture except sloughs and running creeks, rushed across their front like a gust from a furnace.

In the abstract they knew a little about prairie fires, as they did about horses, and organic chemistry, and Confucianism, and other popular topics. They knew, in a casual sort of way, that the long, dry grass was as inflammable as chips soaked in kerosene. Round their own campfires they had observed that tiny spots of burning grass had a queer getting-away quality. Somehow the knowledge had bitten into their unfamiliar intelligence that, on a perfectly calm day, a little patch of fire possessed the power of raising its own breeze.

"That's the surrounding air rushing in to fill the vacuum," Bert explained one day, as he watched Sam trying to beat out an embryonic prairie fire.

"That's wot you calls it, eh?" puffed Sam, who though entirely ignorant of physics, was energetically flapping at a widening ring of fire with the back of a shovel.

Bert picked up a bit of burning grass and calmly lighted a cigarette. "Yes," he said, "that's the theory of it."

Sam didn't seem to be particularly impressed. For a minute or two he leaned on his shovel like a professional road-mender, partly with the idea of catching his wind, but chiefly to permit him to utter something sarcastic. Meanwhile, the blaze was romping away like a train of gunpowder alight.

"An' wot's the proper way of explainin' a feller watchin' anuvver silly fool puttin' it aht?"

"Why, pure unadulterated ignorance, Sam, me lad," laughed Bert, who, taking the hint, at once commenced to singe a perfectly good pair of boots in an attempt to trample out some of the fire.

Trailey regarded the circumstance with his usual detached air of innocent unconcern. He apparently thought that some new-fangled, pyrotechnic display was being put on for his special amusement.

"Fancy it burning!" he ejaculated wonderingly. "I never knew grass would burn like that. It doesn't in England."

Trailey's constant journeyings through his own private wonderland were a source of much pleasure to him. His delightfully naive remarks amused everyone--except his wife, Martha, who flung showers of scorn at him, only to see it splash off his incorrigible dreaminess and drain away uselessly. He appeared to be everlastingly surprised that the country wasn't filled with buildings, and 'buses, and other products of a comfortable civilization.

Westwards from Battleford, the prairie resembled a vast virgin park. Judged as a whole, it was flat; but, upon closer examination, it turned out to be quite rolling. Ridges alternated with dips. Occasionally hogbacks grew into real hills, seamed with valleys and ravines. Nature's works were all well rounded and smooth. There were no jagged outcroppings, no splintered rocks, nor anything at all that suggested abruptness or impetuosity. Even the angles and corners of gullies had been planed off by Time and coated with grass. Obviously, much patience had gone into the making of this part of the earth; which is the reason, perhaps, why a good deal of the same attribute is needed in getting anything out of it. A few Barr Colonists comprehended this the first month--but not many did.

Patches of poplar and willow, bare of leaves, smudged the tawny landscape in every direction. Shallow swamps, filled with tangled yellow grass, which when alive had been three and four feet high, were in some areas almost as numerous as the bluffs. Pea vines, vetches, rose and wild fruit trees, native grasses of many kinds--all encircled the clumps of timber in masses of luxuriant vegetation, at this time of the year dead and dry as a cinder.

Within the bluffs, the trees were thickly interspersed with old undergrowth, some of it half-consumed relics of previous conflagrations. The whole land was one vast tinder box, with a wind, like an ever-ready bellows, waiting to fan into fury any little blaze started by some idiot with a match. There were no graded roads, nor railways; no ploughed land, no mowing machines, no grazing cattle, nor anything at all to contribute one jot of prevention to the spreading of black desolation when once a fire was whisked out of man's control. Two or three years' growth of grass covered the earth. It actually made walking difficult, so thick was the matted mass. Into this potential fire-trap went hundreds of innocent people, all of whom were utterly unused to a climate whose drying, parching wind was twin brother to the fire fiend itself.

Prior to the air becoming smoke-logged, the Trailey party had observed, rolling up into the sky in the distance, great columns of smoke, which stretched out and spread to the horizon with startling rapidity. At night, the scene had been one of grandeur. With the wind in such a direction as to carry the smoke away from them, they saw, twenty and thirty miles off, the fringe of fire leaping and licking its way along. Devouring tongues of yellow flame shot up like miniature volcanic eruptions as the masses of fuel-laden brush timber were consumed.

By the first week in May, the whole tremendous, V-shaped territory, situated between the two rivers westwards, was ablaze for hundreds of miles. Even in the open spaces, where the growth was relatively thin and short, the flames, fanned by powerful air currents, were three to six feet high. But in the ravines, and bluffs, and hollows, the enormous amount of combustible material sent them shooting up to a height of thirty and forty feet.

Though awe-inspiring, the sight was grand. The members of the Trailey party, from a sightseeing standpoint at first, afterwards as possible sufferers--were extremely interested in the spectacle.

"My word," Trailey commented to his wife, "it beats the fireworks at the Crystal Palace. What a remarkable country this is!"

Mrs. Trailey's sensitized organs had long since become aware of something burning. She had repeatedly stuck her small, thin nose into the air and sniffed. "Something's certainly on fire, somewhere," she said. "It can't be anybody's chimney--not out here, can it?"

"Oh, no, my dear," replied Trailey; "the police would see to that. They wouldn't let people set fire to their chimneys without coming down on them severely. The Canadian police are very efficient. Don't you remember Egerton R. Young, the missionary, telling us so in his lectures at chapel?"

"What! that man who dressed up like a Red Indian, and told us all about Canada, and then sold us a book, or something? H'm!"

"Yes; we bought one from him. "By Snowtrain and Dogshoe" it was called, I think. Where is it, Martha? Find it, my dear. I should like to read it again. It was very interesting, and told you all about ice, and snow, and things like that. It might be useful to us with all this fire about."

"You never mind Everton R. Flung, or whatever his name is. I gave his book away; I'm sure I did. Let me see---- Oh, yes! I made Lucy Flatt a present of it. She wanted something for a prize for her Sunday-school class, and she wasn't quite sure whether to get a copy of 'Josephus,' I think she called it; or whether to get 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' with gilt edges; so I gave her this Kingston B. Strong's book about Indians that you keep worrying me about. She said it was just what she was looking for, only she couldn't remember the title--the cat, her. I know if I were a Sunday-school teacher I shouldn't tell such horrible fibs. She only mentioned it because she knew I should give it to her--and so save her a paltry half-crown. It's disgusting, and her with a young man like she's got. He's a lot too good for her. I nearly told her so; but thank goodness I didn't. She'd only have told him, and then they'd have talked us over if you like. She's two-faced enough. I hate people who are everlastingly picking others to pieces. If I were Lucy Flatt's young man--and thank goodness I'm not--I'd enlist for a soldier, and go off to India, or Ireland, or somewhere, and break her heart. What ever he can see in her, I don't know. She isn't even pretty, let alone being a Christian. And talk about a temper! And her tongue! If that poor young fellow can put up with her, well, he's an angel, that's all. And fancy you wanting me to find his book! If you want to read about fires, read your Bible, and see what happens to... H'm!"

William Trailey had made a noise in his throat. He had snored. Nearly every living creature possesses some sort of protective device. This was his. They sat, not uncomfortably, atop of the loaded wagon, towards the back, beneath the schooner-top. Forward, silhouetted in the semi-circular opening, two figures leaned against each other like the sides of a triangle. They were Esther and Bert, the latter driving. Only six feet separated them from Mr. and Mrs. Trailey, yet the two couples were worlds apart. The other wagon, with Sam in charge, was ahead slightly.

Although thinking of something entirely different, Esther and Bert were discussing fires. The low rumble of the wagon did not interfere with their conversation, which was very spasmodic. The pungent smell of smoke troubled them little.

"What a terrible thing fire is," Esther said, withdrawing her gaze from the sun, which, like a great bloodshot eye, peered through the thickening haze from straight before them. Bert, too, had been looking at the fiery orb. In his own mind he had compared it with a solicitor's red wafer seal, clinging to an old yellow parchment.

"Our friend up there is a big fire," he said, glancing at the sun. "He'd be something of a catastrophe if he were closer, I suppose. The people in Arabia think so, no doubt."

"What about the people in Alaska?" laughed Esther, but Bert did not reply. Martha Trailey was knitting. Her husband was asleep, and, from the look on his face, unquestionably he was as happy as only oblivion can make anyone.

None of them noticed that the wind had changed its direction. The air was laden with floating particles of ash. The smoke grew suddenly thicker, completely veiling the sun. All through the day the wind had been driving the distant fires obliquely across their line of travel. Now it was coming at them head on.

Cautious Sam brought his team to a halt. A much more experienced man than he was could not have judged how far away the fire was, nor of its extent. He jumped down from his wagon to consult with Bert.

"Wot abaht it?"

"It's looking pretty thick. Wind's rising, too. What d'you suggest, Sam?" A faint roar could distinctly be heard coming down the wind. Every minute the smoke grew more opaque.

"'Ow would it be ter do some of this 'ere backfirin' they told us abaht at Battleford?"

"All right," replied Bert. "You know how the dodge works, I suppose?"

"Why, set fire ter the blinkin' grarss--over there, s'y; an' then move on to it when it's burnt." Sam waved his arm towards a bit of open prairie.

Old-timers at Battleford had warned them to be particularly careful about the smoke from prairie fires--not to get asphyxiated into unconsciousness, and then probably burned to death.

Where they were halting was a fairly favourable position--yet it wasn't. They were in the slough and brush country thirty or so miles west of Battleford. There were any number of tree-fringed water holes to walk into for protection from the fire. But sloughs meant grass, and much of it; and a heavy growth of grass meant large volumes of smoke, against which water was of no avail.

Sam had been doing some thinking. So had Bert, as far as that goes. His thoughts, though, were flitting about like butterflies, and, apart from love matters, were of no particular consequence.

"It won't be necessary ter backfire," Sam said, a new note in his voice. "Look at that!"

Flying embers floated through the smoky pall, which was now almost choking in its denseness. Hot gusts blew in their faces. A fearful crackling sound, mingled with a sullen roaring, beat down the wind to them in terrifying waves. Sam pointed at a glowing fragment of stick which had settled in the long, twisted grass a few yards distant.

After hesitating a moment, the ember flared up into a blaze, which crept hungrily into the surrounding grass. Slowly it devoured its way along, then suddenly one of the powerful gusts of wind which are so characteristic of the Western plains caught the fire and whipped it away as fast as a man could walk.

"Gawd!" muttered Sam, open-eyed. Other specks of flame were falling all about. Some merely spluttered and died out. All at once the wind howled like a fury, as it always does near a prairie fire. The smoke was suffocating.

"Foller me!" yelled Sam, refusing to be fascinated any longer. "There's the fire!" He pointed through the choking air. A dull, red glow lit up the huge columns of smoke.

Sam sprang aboard his wagon, grasped the lines, and then commenced frantically to inject some of his own excitement into his horses. Bert did likewise, feeling doubly heroic because of Esther's presence. The women were terrified, but far from panic-stricken. Sam had wheeled for a big, flat slough, which a little way back the trail had skirted. Headlong into it splashed the horses, dragging at the heavy load frenziedly, urged to their last gasp by their little driver. Bert followed. Crashing through a fringe of water-willows at a trot, Arthur and Freddie for once waived their right to get stuck, and actually strained and tugged till they were fairly in the centre of the slough, by the side of Tempest and Kruger.

"Jump into the water, Esther," cried Bert, repeating the order to the others inside. The jolting had wakened Trailey. He coughed a good deal, having been sleeping with his mouth wide open. Wonderment at the sudden and dramatic twist of events occupied his sluggish mind. Mrs. Trailey was moderately silent. A few "Mercy me's," soon taught her that it would be safer to keep her mouth shut tightly against the smoke.

"Thank God!" gasped Trailey fervently, as he clambered down from the wagon and dropped into the cool, thigh-deep water. His exertions had compelled him to inhale large draughts of furnace-like air and smoke. The ladies were already standing in the slough, trembling and terrified.

"Quick, Esther!--Mrs. Trailey!" Bert cried excitedly, as the advancing wall of fire bore down on them with frightful speed. "Duck into the water!" he yelled; then, climbing into the wagon, he dragged the tent--which was always kept handy for Trailey to recline on--into the slough, soaked it hastily, and flung it without ceremony completely over the cowering females.

A pair of luxurious scarlet blankets fell off the load with the tent, so Bert soaked these also, and threw them over Trailey.

"What about yourself?" called Esther anxiously--"and Sam?"

"Don't worry about us, Esther. Stoop right down into the water, all of you," commanded Bert. Sam had already pulled the other tent off his own load, and soaked it for him and Bert to crawl beneath.

The fire, propelled by a fierce wind, and fanned into a lurid furnace by its own draught, roared and crackled all around them. The slough split the blaze in two. The horses snorted and tugged to get free; then stood still, shivering with fear. Sam made one or two brave attempts to splash them with water, but in vain. He was forced to retreat. Almost suffocated, he cringed again beneath the tent.

The slough was oval-shaped, and was probably two or three acres in extent. Raging like ten thousand demons, the main fire devoured its edges, licking everything up in its path, living vegetation and dead alike. Tongues of crimson flame swept over the water, and columns of spark-laden smoke rose high into the air. Impatient of the slough's obstruction, glowing embers leaped the water and fell into the grass beyond, continuing their consuming paths ahead of the main fire.

Esther and her mother huddled together, struck speechless with the suddenness of the catastrophe. However, within twenty minutes, the danger had passed. Although patches of timber and thick undergrowth still burned and smoked furiously all around them, the prairie grass was swept clear.

"By Jove, Sam! sloughs are useful things, after all," remarked Bert when they poked their heads from under the tent's enveloping folds.

"Not 'alf, they ain't," replied Sam, inhaling a deep, smoky breath.

In a flat, toneless voice, Trailey stuck his head forth, and said: "God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform," and then he, too, drew in a large mouthful of very welcome air. He seemed pleased to be alive, which, no doubt, accounted for the wonderful relevancy of his quotation.

Lifting the blankets off his shoulders, he calmly surveyed the smoking landscape. "Ah-h-h," he sighed, "wonderful!--wonderful!"

Bert withdrew the tent from the half-smothered ladies. "All's well!" he cried joyously. "The fire's passed over, and I don't think we've suffered any damage in the least--beyond a few holes burned in these blankets, perhaps; and one or two in the wagon-covers." He was examining the tents, and the blankets, and the schooner-tops, appraising the damage. Sam was at the horses' heads, comforting the faithful brutes with pats and caresses, and queer expressions of fondness and appreciation, like men do when no one is listening.

When Martha Trailey saw that the dripping blankets had been instrumental in saving her husband from the fire and smoke, she was greatly moved. "Oh, Mr. Tressider!" she exclaimed with (for her) deep emotion. "What a godsend! They've saved my husband's life," and she regarded first Bert, and then the saturated and somewhat soiled blankets gratefully.

William Trailey cast his eyes upwards into the smoke with a vacuously pious gesture. "His work, my dear," he murmured abstractedly. "You must never part with them."

"Part with them! Not for worlds! How dare you suggest such a thing?" Martha bent down to inspect the blankets more closely. With shining eyes and tender fingers she examined three or four tiny, brown holes which had been burned in them by drifting sparks.

Bert was secretly elated. He alone really knew why he had presented the blankets to Mrs. Trailey; although intuition might have whispered the reason to Esther.

Sam was unhooking a team preparatory to doubling-up on the other wagon. "When you've all done prayin' we may as well get aht of 'ere," he broke in irreverently; then, looking at the depressing scene about him, he added: "There's a lot of things ter be done yet. Wot a stinkin', smoky, black-lookin' ash-'eap! By gum, if it ain't!"

Bert saw that the ladies were experiencing some difficulty in releasing themselves from the slough's muddy bottom, so he told Sam to wait a minute while he rendered them some assistance.

"You hang on to Mrs. Trailey's arm," he said to the good lady's husband, who was still surveying with a sort of childish curiosity the smoking world around him----"and you take my arm----Esther."

Esther obeyed. She stole a shy glance at Bert's face upon hearing him call her by her Christian name. Something in her look made him grasp her hand, which he passionately squeezed thirty or forty times during their progress shorewards. Esther reciprocated, just sufficiently modestly to convey exactly the right message. Bert's heart pounded and jumped till he became quite dizzy with the intensity of his joy.

For a girl of Esther's calibre to return the pressure of his hand, especially when accompanied by such an eloquent avowal as that written in her lovely eyes, showed plainly enough where her affections lay. If actions speak louder than words, then Bert's silent proposal was answered by a joyous shout of consent. He was radiantly happy, almost to the extent that Esther herself was.

In the exuberance of his joy, he bubbled over to Sam as they extricated the wagons from the slough: "Congratulate me, you ugly little devil!"

"Wot for?"

"I'm engaged. It amounts to that, anyway. Esther loves me, Sam."

Sam slipped a trace off a whiffletree, then turned round to have a good look at his companion.

"Rushin' things, aren't yer?"

"We've cared for one another all along. I suppose the excitement helped things a hit. But isn't she a wonderful girl, Sam?"

"The blinkin' world's full of wonderful girls. Leastw'ys, London is."

"That's what I used to think. But I know different now. Esther's queen of 'em all. And thank God for prairie fires! that's all I've got to say."

"Gawd's bein' thanked fer a lot of things jus' nah, ain't 'e?--sloughs, an' blankits, an' nah prairie fires. Wot's 'e got ter do wiv it all? Ooo d'yer reckon ter thank when yer gets things like a broken neck, or a missis wot runs away wiv anuvver bloke, or----"

"Oh, shut up! you're nothing but a wet blanket yourself and a cold blooded heathen to boot. Haven't you ever had any religious training?"

"No."

"Or attended church, and listened to clever sermons, and all that sort of thing?"

"No, never. My guv'ner always told me ter be careful ter do to uvvers wot they did ter me----"

"What you'd _like_ them to do to you, I suppose you mean?"

"All right; 'ave it yer own way. It all comes ter the same thing. But 'e was only a blinkin' cab driver, so 'e couldn't know anythink abaht religion. I'm glad you've got that gel of Trailey's, though; she's a good un."