By the time the horses stepped from the slope to the bed of the canon,
it was quite dark. Jack turned down stream.
"We'll cut the trail to Burro Rock pretty quick," said he.
Within five minutes of travel they did cut it; a narrow brown trough,
trodden by the hoofs of many generations of cattlemen bound for the back
country. Almost immediately it began to mount the slope.
Now ahead, through the gathering twilight, lights began to show,
sometimes scattered, sometimes grouped, like the camp-fires of an
immense army. These were the stubs, stumps, down logs and the like left
still blazing after all the more readily inflammable material had been
burned away. As the little cavalcade laboured upward, stopping every few
minutes to breathe the horses, these flickering lights defined
themselves. In particular one tall dead yellow pine standing boldly
prominent, afire to the top, alternately glowed and paled as the wind
breathed or died. A smell of stale burning drifted down the damp night
air. Pretty soon Jack Pollock halted for a moment to call back:
"Here's their fire line!"
Bob spurred forward.
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