“They’re a good lot,” admitted California John.  “Best unbroke lot I ever saw.”

“We found Orde’s finger broken and badly swelled.  Heaven knows when he did it, but he never peeped.  Morton says he noticed his hand done up in a handkerchief yesterday morning.”

Bob dozed again.  From time to time he caught fragments—­“Four fire-lines—­think of it—­only one old-timer in the lot—­I’m proud of my boys——­”

He came next to full consciousness to hear Thorne saying: 

“Mrs. Morton fought fire with the best of them.  That’s the ranger spirit I like—­when as of old the women and children——­”

“Don’t praise me,” broke in Mrs. Morton tartly.  “I don’t give a red cent for all your forests, and your pesky rangering.  I’ve got no use for them.  If Charley Morton would quit you and tend to his cattle, I’d be pleased.  I didn’t fight fire to help you, let me tell you.”

“What did you do it for?” asked Thorne, evidently amused.

“I knew I couldn’t get Charley Morton home and in bed and resting until that pesky fire was out; that’s why!” shot back Mrs. Morton.

“Well, Mrs. Morton,” said Thorne composedly, “if you’re ever fixed so sass will help you out, you’ll find it a very valuable quality.”

Then Bob fell into a deep sleep.

VII

On returning to headquarters, as Bob was naturally somewhat incapacitated for manual work, he was given the fire patrol.  This meant that every day he was required to ride to four several “lookouts” on the main ridge, from which points he could spy abroad carefully over vast stretches of mountainous country.  One of these was near the meadow of the cold spring whence the three of them had first caught sight of the Granite Creek fire.  Thence he turned sharp to the north along the ridge top.  The trail led among great trees that dropped away to right and left on the slopes of the mountain.  Through them he caught glimpses of the blue distance, or far-off glittering snow, or unexpected canon depths.  The riding was smooth, over undulating knolls.  Every once in a while passing through a “puerto suelo,” he looked on either side to tiny green meadows, from which streams were born.  Occasionally he saw a deer, or more likely small bands of the wild mountain cattle that swung along before him, heads held high, eyes staring, nostrils expanded.  Then Bob felt his pony’s muscles stiffen beneath his thighs, and saw the animal’s little ears prick first forward at the cattle, then back for his master’s commands.

After three miles of this he came out on a broad plateau formed by the joining of his ridge with that of the Baldy range.  Here Granite Creek itself rose, and the stream that flowed by the mill.  It was a country of wild, park-like vistas between small pines, with a floor of granite and shale.  Over it frowned the steeps of Baldy, with its massive domes, its sheer precipices, and its scant tree-growth clinging to its sides.  Against the sky it looked very rugged, very old, very formidable; and the sky, behind its yellowed age, was inconceivably blue.