The Big Burn (9 page)

She heard Ranger Logan, his voice muffled, say, "Some friends put it up. The poster, I mean. As a gag."

"I assumed so," Celia answered. "I'm surprised your employer doesn't require you to remove it"

Lizbeth had hoped she'd find Jarrett inside, but it didn't sound as though anyone was there. "Ranger Logan?" she called. "I was just wondering, is your brother...?"

"Jarrett's on the Graham Creek fire," he answered. "He left a little over a week ago."

"Oh, I see," Lizbeth said, trying not to sound disappointed.

She carried the pie to a table, where she moved aside a pile of scrapbooks. A dried leaf fell from between them, and she put it back. Then, curious, she opened the top book. The page she turned to held a pressed stalk of Indian paintbrush neatly labeled with its Latin name and the date and place it had been picked. A meticulously detailed sketch on the facing page showed the plant it had come from.

Outside, Celia was saying that they really had to be going. That they had their hands full with all the work on their place.

"Oh?" the ranger asked. "Have you been cutting that firebreak you talked about?"

Glancing through the open doorway, Lizbeth saw Celia press her lips tight before answering, "Some."

The truth was, in several days of dawn-to-dark work, they'd made so little progress even Celia had conceded the project was hopeless.

Trying to put down her disappointment over Jarrett's absence, Lizbeth turned another page in the scrapbook and then another, idly at first and then with increasing interest. Finally, she carefully carried the book outside. "I hope you don't mind, Ranger Logan, but I saw this when I was clearing space for the pie and I wanted to show my aunt."

Celia glanced down quickly before looking more closely at an inked drawing beside a faded blue spray of lupine. As Lizbeth had, she turned to another page and then another. She asked the ranger, "Is this your work? The illustrations are so..." She seemed to search for a word. "
Exact.
"

"They help me fix details in my mind," he said almost apologetically.

"Are the other scrapbooks full of flowers, too?" Lizbeth asked.

"No, they're different things," he answered, reaching for the one Celia held and then again withdrawing his hands when he saw the grease.

"Why don't I put it inside?" Celia said. "If I may, I'd like to see the others."

***

Lizbeth studied her aunt and the forest ranger as they sat at the table with his scrapbooks open around them. One book held leaves and needle clusters from trees, with sketches of bark so carefully drawn that a person could almost feel how rough it would be. Two others contained just drawings and notes, one book devoted to insects and one to animal tracks and homes.

"These must have taken years to put together," Celia said. "I can't imagine ... What got you started?"

"Just passing winter evenings, after it turned out I had no skill for taxidermy and didn't care for braiding horsehair," the ranger answered. "But then the books turned out to be a good way for me to learn some of the things new rangers are coming out of school knowing."

"These collections are lovely," Celia said. "Worth treasuring."

"I reckon they're the one thing I own that I care about,"
Ranger Logan told her. "I just wish..." The telephone rang two long rings, and he didn't finish his sentence.

Going over, he picked up the earpiece and leaned close to the speaking funnel. "Cool Spring Station," he said. "Ranger Logan here."

He listened a moment and then asked, "How bad?" Then he said, "I've got a few shovels and one double-bit ax I can spare. You want me to pack them in, as long as I'm going?...Okay then, I'll get started first thing tomorrow and count on you guys to keep an eye on things out this way."

Hanging up, he turned back to Lizbeth and her aunt. "The Pine Creek fire has broken loose again," he said. "I swear that fire's got more lives than a barnyard cat."

"I just mailed a letter to a friend in Pine Creek," Celia said. "I hope she's all right."

"Most folks out that way have been fortunate so far," he said. "Tell me her name, and I'll keep an ear out for it."

"Crane," Celia told him. "Dora Crane. Her husband is Nathaniel Crane."

"I'll remember," the ranger said. "And now, I hate to run you all off, but..."

"But you've got a lot of getting ready to do," Celia finished for him. "Thank you for your hospitality and for letting us see your scrapbooks."

***

They said their good-byes, and then Celia leaned down from the wagon. "Ranger Logan," she said, "Lizbeth and I will be attending a church picnic in the town park next Sunday. We could pack some extra food, if you would care to be our guest Jarrett, also, if he's back."

Ranger Logan appeared as surprised as Lizbeth was. But after a moment's hesitation, he said, "Why, I'd like that. With this fire season as bad as it is, I don't know just where I'll be that day, but if I can make it into Wallace, I will. And if Jarrett returns here once he's done at Graham Creek, I'll pass on the invitation."

"
If?
" Lizbeth asked. "Doesn't he live with you?"

"Oh no," the ranger answered. "At least I don't think so."

Driving away, Lizbeth said, "Cel, how could he not know if Jarrett lives with him?"

Celia shook her head. "I've no idea. No idea at all."

Mr. Polson of the Coeur d'Alene Forest headquarters office stuck a colored pin in the wall map. These days the fire picture changed faster than he could add pins to show what was burning and where the rangers had their crews.

Most fire seasons settled into a rhythm men could work around, with fires blazing up and dying down along with the weather. The crews could take it easy some, between the worst bursts of work. And maybe once in a while, they could stay on a fire long enough to put it all the way out.

This year, though, with things so dry, the lulls weren't happening. No one was getting any rest. And as for a crew being able to put a fire out altogether...

This year a fire boss just hoped to get a good enough perimeter around a fire that it could be left to burn. A few men might be spared to patrol the surrounding trench, but the main crew would have to go on to the next fire.

Sighing, Mr. Polson turned to the paperwork stacked on his desk. More problems, all of it. Where was he supposed to scrape for new firefighters when there wasn't anybody left to hire? President Taft had authorized the use of military troops, but Mr. Polson wouldn't count on that help until he saw the soldiers.

And he needed to find a cook for that camp that was losing people over canned tomatoes served three meals a day.

Also, he should ask store owners to search their backrooms for overlooked tools. New shovels had gotten rare as a January thaw.

What a way to spend a fire season/

He'd like to be out on the firelines himself instead of tied down here. Young again and eager, like that Logan boy he'd sent to Graham Creek. He hoped the kid was doing all right. Samuel Logan had been in asking about him.

That was the day Samuel had spotted a pair of arsonists coming out of a town bar. They'd got away from him once, but this time they spent a night in jail before a judge turned them loose.

As for Samuel, he'd sounded relieved to hear Jarrett was working under Will Morris, a ranger who knew what he was doing. "Not that Jarrett can't take care of himself," Samuel had said, "but I'd hate to see him on some crew where the boss didn't know up slope from down."

"I'm afraid there are some," Mr. Polson had said. "But your brother seems like a young man with his head on his shoulders."

"He's got some learning to do," Samuel had replied, "but I think you're right."

Seth, straightening to rest his back, wondered why the officers were busying about so much. They hurried from tent to tent, and huddled over papers, and put their heads together with the sergeants'.

He wished one of those sergeants would think to send him some help. This was his second day at pickaxing and digging a new latrine ditch, and his back and shoulders throbbed.

Seth had been getting jobs like this ever since Abel played that rat-poison trick to get him and Seth off kitchen duty. Sometimes Seth wondered if Sarge had guessed what was done and was punishing him.

Other times Seth wondered if Sarge was just trying to find a job Seth would refuse.

Well, Seth wouldn't refuse any—even if he could have without winding up in a guardhouse.

Abel said Seth was being a sucker. For some reason Abel never got the same kind of attention from Sarge.
Harassment,
Abel called it, when, night after night, he urged Seth to ease up. "Why you work so hard, Brown?" he'd ask. "Where's the percentage?"

Finally Seth had asked him, "What do you care, anyway?"

"I care about you, buddy," Abel had answered. "Someone got to."

Now Abel came over to the ditch and looked down. "You just as well stop digging," he said. "Rumor is we're moving out."

"Where to?" Seth asked.

"Idaho, to put out forest fires. Heard it early this morning."

Seth flung down his shovel. Sarge piling on needed work was one thing, but leaving Seth to sweat over a job there wasn't no point to was another. "So I done all this for nothing?"

Abel said, "Looks like it. Maybe Sarge needs a lesson taught him."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing special. Just a thought 'bout how good getting even can feel. Say, after supper, you want to celebrate our last night in camp? I can work a deal to get us passes."

"Yeah," Seth said, still fuming. "Why not?" -›

***

They found most of the company gathered at a saloon bar, although Sarge and his cronies were missing. Seth would have hung back, but Abel pulled him into the group.

One of the men said, "You hear Sarge hurt his ankle bad? Oddest thing, a hole opening up when he stepped into his tent Gophers, he figured."

In his mind Seth heard the words
How good getting even can feel.
But it had to be coincidence—or was it? He glanced at Abel, but his friend was looking as surprised and interested as anybody.

The bartender came over, and Seth ordered a beer.

A guy Seth didn't know well said, "Hey, Junior, you old enough for that?"

A man from Seth's squad answered, "Course he is. He's ours, ain't he? Part of the fighting Twenty-fifth."

While soldiers joked and hoisted glasses, Abel stepped close and said, quiet enough for just Seth to hear, "We're the real team, Brown, you and me."

Later, walking back to camp, Seth asked, "Abel, you didn't have nothing to do with what happened to Sarge, did you?"

"Of course not, buddy," Abel answered. "I wouldn't do nothing you didn't want."

It was another Saturday, and Lizbeth was arguing with Celia again.

"You invited them to a picnic," Lizbeth said. "What are Samuel and Jarrett going to think, if they show up and we're not there?"

"Ranger Logan," Celia corrected. "They would think we're showing good judgment, staying home to look after our place. Besides, with the fires so much worse, the Logans are probably off fighting them."

"You don't know the fires are worse."

"Use your nose, Lizbeth. You think the smoke's not increasing by the day?"

Lizbeth turned away. She knew her aunt was right, but she hated to admit the increased fire danger when there wasn't any way to know just how bad
worse
was. Or from just how far away—or how near—the smoke came. The wind had picked up a couple of days earlier, blowing in veering, fitful gusts, and then a new layer of hazy, rich smoke had settled in.

"Look, Cel," she said, "why don't you let me go into town long enough to get some news? I can ride Trenton in tomorrow in time for the picnic, spend the night with Mrs. Marston, and then Monday, before coming back here, I'll go to the Forest Service office and ask what's going on. Cel, please?"

"I don't like you riding that far by yourself."

"You've done it."

"Not when the woods were crawling with who knows what riffraff."

"I don't know what riffraff you're talking about. Most of the firefighters we've seen have been men who live here, same as us," Lizbeth said.

Her aunt stared out to where veiling smoke had turned the hills into looming, indistinct shapes. "I
would
like to know if Dora Crane has written."

"I'll stop at the mail drop," Lizbeth promised. "And I'll bring back a newspaper, too."

***

When bedtime came without Celia having said a definite
no,
Lizbeth knew she'd won. Maybe by this time two nights from now, they'd know the fire situation wasn't nearly as bad as they feared. Maybe when she left their gulch, she'd walk out of smoke into clear air. Then, in Wallace, she could enjoy the picnic and not worry.

She wondered what her chances were of seeing Jarrett. She wondered at herself, wanting to see him so much, when they'd only met that one day.

She'd thought maybe her aunt was just a bit interested in Ranger Logan, too, since the picnic invitation was her idea, but Celia had hardly mentioned him since giving it.

"Cel," Lizbeth whispered, "are you awake? Are you sure you don't want to go into Wallace with me?"

Celia didn't answer, but her breathing was so absolutely soundless she had to be pretending sleep.

Lizbeth turned over and then over again. Sometimes this bed was impossible to get comfortable in.

"Lizbeth, will you stop thrashing about!" Celia exclaimed. She threw the covers back and stood up. "No, I do not want to go to Wallace. Do you want a cup of tea? I must say, I do not like things this unsettled."

Jarrett, who had returned to working night shifts, came awake confused by sudden commotion. The clay-colored sun was still on the morning side of the smoke-filled sky, so he hadn't been asleep more than a couple of hours. A pair of exhausted-looking men that Jarrett didn't recognize sank to the ground near him. Someone thrust cups of coffee into their hands.