“We’ve got it all to do over again from the beginning?”

“Certain sure.”

Bob adjusted his mind to this new and rather overwhelming idea.

“I saw Senator What’s-his-name—­from Montana—­made a speech the other day,” spoke up Elliott, “in which he attacked the Service because he said it was a refuge for consumptives and incompetents!”

At this moment Amy rode up draped with canteens and balancing carefully a steaming pail of coffee.  She was accompanied by another woman similarly provided.

The newcomer was a decided-looking girl under thirty, with a full, strong figure, pronounced flaxen-blond hair, a clear though somewhat sunburned skin, blue eyes, and a flash of strong, white teeth.  Bob had never seen her before, but he recognized her as a mountain woman.  She rode a pinto, guided by a hackamore, and was attired quite simply in the universal broad felt hat and a serviceable blue calico gown.  In spite of this she rode astride; and rode well.  A throwing rope, or riata, hung in the sling at the right side of her saddle pommel; and it looked as though it had been used.

“Where’s Charley?” she asked promptly as she rode up.  “Is that you?  You look like a nigger.  How you feeling?  You just mind me, and don’t you try to do too much.  You don’t get paid for overtime at this job.”

“Hullo, Lou,” replied Charley Morton; “I thought it was about time you showed up.”

The woman nodded at the others.

“Howdy, Mrs. Morton,” answered Tom Carroll, Pollock and Ware.  Bob and Elliott bowed.

By now the fire had been left far in the rear.  The crackling of flames had died in the distance; even the smoke cleared from the atmosphere.  All the forest was peaceful and cool.  The Douglas squirrels scampered and barked; the birds twittered and flashed or slanted in long flight through the trees; the sun shone soft; a cool breeze ruffled the feathery tips of the tarweed.

At the top of the ridge Charley Morton called a halt.

“This is pretty easy country,” said he.  “We’ll run the line square down either side.  Get busy.”

“Have a cup of coffee first,” urged Amy.

“Surely.  Forgot that.”

They drank the coffee, finding it good, and tucked away the lunches Amy, with her unfailing forethought, had brought them.

“Good-bye!” she called gaily; “I’ve got to get back to camp before the fire cuts me off.  I won’t see you again till the fire burns me out a way to get to you.”

“Take my horse, too,” said Mrs. Morton, dismounting.  “You don’t need me in camp.”

Amy took the lead rein and rode away as a matter of course.  She was quite alone to guard the horses and camp equipage on the little knoll while the fire spent its fury all around her.  Everybody seemed to take the matter for granted; but Bob looked after her with mingled feelings of anxiety and astonishment.  This Western breed of girl was still beyond his comprehension.