For hours the desperate battle went on.  Dave lost count of time.  One after another of his men retreated to rest.  After a time they drifted back to help make the defense good against the plunging fire devil.  Sanders alone refused to retire.  His parched eyebrows were half gone.  His clothes hung about him in shredded rags.  He was so exhausted that he could hardly wield a flail.  His legs dragged and his arms hung heavy.  But he would not give up even for an hour.  Through the confused, shifting darkness of the night he led his band, silhouetted on the ridge like gnomes of the nether world, to attack after attack on the tireless, creeping, plunging flames that leaped the trench in a hundred desperate assaults, that howled and hissed and roared like ravenous beasts of prey.

Before the light of day broke he knew that he had won.  His men had made good the check-trail that held back the fire in the terrain between Bear and Cattle Canons.  The fire, worn out and beaten, fell back for lack of fuel upon which to feed.

Reinforcements came from town.  Dave left the trail in charge of a deputy and staggered down with his men to the camp that had been improvised below.  He sat down with them and swallowed coffee and ate sandwiches.  Steve Russell dressed his burn with salve and bandages sent out by Joyce.

“Me for the hay, Dave,” the cowpuncher said when he had finished.  He stretched himself in a long, tired, luxurious yawn.  “I’ve rid out a blizzard and I’ve gathered cattle after a stampede till I ’most thought I’d drop outa the saddle.  But I give it to this here li’l’ fire.  It’s sure enough a stemwinder.  I’m beat.  So long, pardner.”

Russell went off to roll himself up in his blanket.

Dave envied him, but he could not do the same.  His responsibilities were not ended yet.  He found his horse in the remuda, saddled, and rode over to the entrance to Cattle Canon.

Emerson Crawford was holding his ground, though barely holding it.  He too was grimy, fire-blackened, exhausted, but he was still fighting to throw back the fire that swept down the canon at him.

“How are things up above?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

“Good.  We held the check-line.”

“Same here so far.  It’s been hell.  Several of my boys fainted.”

“I’ll take charge awhile.  You go and get some sleep,” urged Sanders.

The cattleman shook his head.  “No.  See it through.  Say, son, look who’s here!” His thumb hitched toward his right shoulder.

Dave looked down the line of blackened, grimy fire-fighters and his eye fell on Shorty.  He was still wearing chaps, but his Chihuahua hat had succumbed long ago.  Manifestly the man had been on the fighting line for some hours.

“Doesn’t he know about the reward?”

“Yes.  He was hidin’ in Malapi when the call came for men.  Says he’s no quitter, whatever else he is.  You bet he ain’t.  He’s worth two of most men at this work.  Soon as we get through he’ll be on the dodge again, I reckon, unless Applegate gets him first.  He’s a good sport, anyhow.  I’ll say that for him.”