By the time he had staggered into camp the daylight had come.  He glanced about him wearily.  Across a tiny ravine the horses dozed, tied each to a short picket rope.  Bob was already enough of a mountaineer to notice that the feed was very scant.  The camp itself had been made under a dozen big yellow pines.  A bright little fire flickered.  About it stood utensils from which the men were rather dispiritedly helping themselves.  Bob saw that the long pine needles had been scraped together to make soft beds, over which the blankets had been spread.  Amy herself, her cheeks red, her eyes bright, was passing around tin cups of strong coffee, and tin plates of food.  Her horse, saddled and bridled, stood nearby.

“Take a little of this,” she urged Bob, “and then turn in.”

Bob muttered his thanks.  After swallowing the coffee, however, he felt his energies reviving somewhat.

“How did you leave things at the lower end?” Morton was asking him.

“All out but two or three smouldering old stubs,” replied Bob.  “Everything’s safe.”

“Nothing’s safe,” contradicted Morton.  “By rights we ought to watch every minute.  But we got to get some rest in a long fight.  It’s the cool of the morning and the fire burns low.  Turn in and get all the sleep you can.  May need you later.”

“I’m all in,” acknowledged Bob, throwing back his blanket; “I’m willing to say so.”

“No more fire in mine,” agreed young Elliott.

The other men said nothing, but fell to their beds.  Only Charley Morton rose a little stiffly to his feet.

“Aren’t you going to turn in too, Charley?” asked the girl quickly.

“It’s daylight now,” explained the ranger, “and I can see to ride a horse.  I reckon I’d better ride down the line.”

“I’ve thought of that,” said Amy.  “Of course, it wouldn’t do to let the fire take care of itself.  See; I have Pronto saddled.  I’ll look over the line, and if anything happens I’ll wake you.”

“You must be about dead,” said Charley.  “You’ve been up all night fixing camp and cooking——­”

“Up all night!” repeated Amy scornfully.  “How long do you think it takes me to make camp and cook a simple little breakfast?”

“But the country’s almighty rough riding.”

“On Pronto?”

“He’s a good mountain pony,” agreed Charley Morton; “California John picked him out himself.  All right.  I do feel some tired.”

This was about six o’clock.  The men had slept but a little over an hour when Amy scrambled over the rim of the dike and dropped from her horse.

“Charley!” she cried, shaking the ranger by the shoulder; “I’m sorry.  But there’s fresh smoke about half-way down the mountain.  There was nothing left to burn fresh inside the fire line, was there?  I thought not.”

Twenty minutes later all six were frantically digging, hoeing, chopping, beating in a frenzy against the spread of the flames.  In some manner the fire had jumped the line.  It might have been that early in the fight a spark had lodged.  As long as the darkness of night held down the temperature, this spark merely smouldered.  When, however, the rays of the sun gathered heat, it had burst into flame.