Summer of Fire - Linda Jacobs [79]
“They make good groundpounders,” Clare observed, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand.
Travis surveyed the group that included two Native Americans, one Black, and three Hispanics. Two were women. Despite their differences, they all seemed equally wary. “Fresh off the plane in Bozeman,” he said. “We should be breaking them in at West Yellowstone, not on a live fire.”
“The North Fork is probably torching our training ground there.” Clare thought of Alonso Mansales and his family moving out of the path of the monster. Garrett had suggested she take the soldiers to the Hellroaring, reported to be creeping along under light and shifting winds. Started August 15 at an outfitter’s camp north of the park, it had spread south and now covered over fifty thousand acres.
She looked at the sun, half-hidden behind a pall of smoke, and checked her watch. Nearly six p.m., surprising, for the temperature was climbing.
She took a long draught of lukewarm water from her belt canteen and continued to monitor the backfire. It attacked a downed log with sharp teeth of flame. This part of the woods was full of fallen trees that had died from an invasion of pine bark beetles.
Travis groused, “I don’t like the looks of this.”
In the same moment, the skin on the back of Clare’s neck prickled. Much as she hated to admit it, she agreed. It was the quiet, the dead zone where not even the air stirred. Fifty years ago the stories of calm before a blowup had been mythology, but science had corroborated that the dragon held its breath . . . just before it seared the land.
The wind began to pick up. First a puff and then a blow, it brought the acrid smell of singed duff. Atop the near ridge, the main body of the Hellroaring torched a dead tree into a hundred-foot tower of flame.
“This was supposed to be safe.” Travis licked his lips.
Clare did not reply. This wasn’t like Black Saturday, with nearly hurricane force winds, but she didn’t like it. The ground fire rose from a height of one to three feet. Over the ridge crest a steady roar mounted.
A sharp stab went through her at the memory of her dream. The one where Frank had led her to the ridge in time to join him in fiery death.
A falling cinder kindled a spot fire almost at their feet. Billy Jakes, a carrot-topped soldier with bright blue eyes, broke from the line and shoveled dirt. More embers swirled, landing on clothes and smouldering out on the fire retardant Nomex.
“Let’s get out of here,” Clare decided.
Travis was in full retreat. “If anything happens to these guys, you got us into this.”
A half-mile away, Steve was alone on the Pebble Creek Trail, two faint wheel tracks covered in dry golden grass. The deep valley between Cutoff Mountain and the long cliff of Baronette Peak was already in shadow. He was hungry; his lunch of cheese, peanut-butter crackers, and an apple had long since burned off.
It was good to be off Mount Washburn and on to other things.
Yesterday he had radioed Park Headquarters and asked for Shad Dugan. In a confident tone, he’d said, “I’ve been up here right at a month. It’s time to come down.” Outside the fire tower, the view that had once innervated had begun to close in.
“Think so?” Dugan asked dryly.
“Lots of rehabs run twenty-eight. I’ve done my time.” He tried to sound matter-of-fact, but he knew the real reason he was in a hurry to get down. What were the odds that Clare was still in the park?
“Still want a drink?”
“Hell, yes. I probably always will. Walt Leighton gave up smoking ten years ago and says he wants a cigarette every day.”
“Think you can turn it down?”
There was the tough question. Would staying longer on the mountain make it easier? He didn’t know if Moru had told Dugan about him drinking the one night he’d been near a bar. Probably yes, since the two of them had put their heads together about getting him help.
“If I’m going to take a drink, I’m going to take it. I know the consequences.” He also knew that he wanted