In desperation, in unabated fury, the little army of farmers and laborers, with no thought of personal gain, with what seemed to Kurt a wonderful and noble spirit, attacked this encroaching line of fire like men whose homes and lives and ideals had been threatened with destruction.  Kurt’s mind worked as swiftly as his tireless hands.  This indeed was being in a front line of battle.  The scene was weird, dark, fitful, at times impressive and again unreal.  These neighbors of his, many of them aliens, some of them Germans, when put to this vital test, were proving themselves.  They had shown little liking for the Dorns, but here was love of wheat, and so, in some way, loyalty to the government that needed it.  Here was the answer of the Northwest to the I.W.W.  No doubt if the perpetrators of that phosphorus trick could have been laid hold of then, blood would have been shed.  Kurt sensed in the fierce energy, in the dark, grimy faces, shining and wet under the light, in the hoarse yell and answering shout, a nameless force that was finding itself and centering on one common cause.

His old father toiled as ten men.  That burly giant pushed ever in the lead, and his hoarse call and strenuous action told of more than a mercenary rage to save his wheat.

Fire never got across that swath of cut barley.  It was beaten out as if by a thousand men.  Shadow and gloom enveloped the fighters as they rested where their last strokes had fallen.  Over the hills faint reflection of dying flames lit up the dark clouds of smoke.  The battle seemed won.

Then came the thrilling cry:  “Fire!  Fire!”

One of the outposts came running out of the dark.

“Fire! the other side!  Fire!” rang out Olsen’s yell.

Kurt ran with the gang pell-mell through the dark, up the barley slope, to see a long red line, a high red flare, and lifting clouds of ruddy smoke.  Fire in the big wheat-field!  The sight inflamed him, carried him beyond his powers, and all he knew was that he became the center of a dark and whirling melee encircled by living flames that leaped only to be beaten down.  Whether that threshing chaos of fire and smoke and wheat was short or long was beyond him to tell but the fire was extinguished to the last spark.

Walking back with the weary crowd, Kurt felt a clearer breeze upon his face.  Smoke was not flying so thickly.  Over the western hill, through a rift in the clouds, peeped a star.  The only other light he saw twinkled far down the lane.  It was that of a lantern.  Dark forms barred it now and then.  Slowly Kurt recovered his breath.  The men were talking and tired voices rang with assurance that the fire was beaten.

Some one called Kurt.  The voice was Jerry’s.  It seemed hoarse and strained.  Kurt could see the lean form of his man, standing in the light of the lantern.  A small dark group of men, silent and somehow impressive, stood off a little in the shadow.