Prairie Fire, Kansas

by John Shirley

  “A year ago,” Bettiger said, looking toward the fire, “if I saw a fire threatening a settlement, why, I’d ride out to help.” He shook his head. “Can’t do it now. The marshal might spot me.”

  Briggs blinked at him in honest puzzlement. “Why would you ever do a fool thing like riding out to a fire?”

  Bettiger looked at him, then just shook his head and went back to skimming pebbles.

  “Peanut,” said Fisher, “I’m thinking that since you’re already some known in Prairie Fire, you’re the man to do some scouting for us. It’ll settle you in their mind as something like a local man, too. Make them less suspicious of you.”

  “I don’t know about that!” Sweeney said, sitting up and slapping his hat on his knees. “I ain’t much liked there.”

  “Where are you much liked?” Diamond asked innocently.

  The others chuckled at that, and Sweeney frowned.

  Fisher went on. “You go out there and ask around—you can get yourself a drink in that saloon, long as you don’t get far drunk, and see what you can find out. Maybe somebody knows for sure if Coe is still in town and where he’s staying.”

  “I don’t like the idea. Folks will wonder at it if I go around asking questions.”

  “No, they won’t. You do it, and I’ll give you an extra hundred dollars of my share.” Fisher had no intention of doing any such thing. But it was enough that Sweeney thought he would.

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “I reckon I could go. But if you’re looking for Coe, why, he’s the type of show-off who’d be out there fighting that fire!”

  “Is he, now?” This interested Fisher. If he could catch Seth Coe alone or covered up by enough smoke, he could simply kill him and rob his body. Most traveling cowboys carried their cash right on them. Likely Coe had a money belt. “Now, that’s an interesting notion. . . .”

  * * *

  * * *

  It was about a quarter mile to the Dubois property on a back road out of town. Josette was walking home from the store, between stretches of yellowing prairie grasses rustling in a hot breeze. She had left the store early, Papa having informed her that Heywood was coming by to see her. She had no wish to see Heywood Kelmer and refused to remain in the store.

  “You stay, or you will be sleeping in the barn tonight!” her papa had said.

  “The pigs will be better company,” she’d replied.

  In a rage, he threatened to throw her off the property entirely if she remained so disrespectful and stubborn. Josette laughed and stepped clear of the swipe of his arms before replying, “You would have a sad time of it without me, Papa!” And with that, she’d taken off her apron and rushed out.

  It was a cloudless late afternoon, yet the sky was curiously dark. Josette wiped at her eyes and wondered why they stung.

  Then she smelled smoke. She stopped, staring at the horizon. A rippling wall of black was rising up out there. How far away? Some miles but not so very far . . .

  She heard hoofbeats, and a horseman came around the bend in the road, proving to be Jimmy Tupper, a lunky, pimply farmhand who’d made a couple of clumsy passes at her. He reined in, gasping, the big stock horse snorting close beside her.

  Jimmy stared down at her as if she were mad. “Where the dickens are you going, Josette? There’s a wildfire comin’ right at us! Cain’t you see it? You need to get back to the south! Go on to town, where you’ll be safe! The men are already trying to head it off, but there’s just no telling!”

  “And where are you going? Shouldn’t you be helping them, Jimmy Tupper?”

  “I’m sent to make sure everyone in town knows! And here it seems some didn’t! Get on back to town!”

  Before she could reply, he spurred the horse and galloped onward toward town.

  Josette hesitated, then shook her head. She would go on to their little farm. It was not a working farm, apart from the truck garden, but they had two pigs, eight chickens, and two goats—Papa liked fromage de chèvre—and Josette was not going to risk their animals burning to death. Papa would soon hear of the fire, and presumably he would come and protect the farm, but she could not be certain. And her home was between here and the fire.

  Josette hurried onward, striding quickly at first; then she broke into a run. The breeze changed and gusted smoke at her, making her cough, but she kept on till she got to the farm.

  Alternately panting and coughing, she looked around and saw that though smoke wreathed the roofs of the farmhouse and barn, the fire was still a few miles away. Soon, she knew, ashes would begin to fall to announce the fire’s imminent arrival.

  She decided not to let the stock out of their pens as yet. The fire might still be turned. She’d seen it before. A six-foot-wide stretch of ground would be frantically turned up between the settlement and the oncoming fire, the grass hoed rapidly away so that the naked soil was bereft of fuel. Then a backfire was lit between the nearly barren stretch of ground and the wildfire. The two fires would meet and extinguish each other, for each was consuming the other’s fuel. But a firebreak thrown up in haste wasn’t likely enough where a whole town was concerned. The flames moved quickly and might well do a kind of fiery flanking motion around the backfires, coming in from the sides. And the prairie fire was ambitious, coming on rapaciously. Riders were needed to try to stanch or slow it between the backfires.

  Seth. He was that kind of man, she knew. He would be out there, helping protect the Hamer farm, which was the property next door to hers. These fires moved so fast, he could easily find himself trapped.

  What could she do about it? Probably nothing. But Josette strode off to the north, heading toward the raging wildfire.

  * * *

  * * *

  A bandanna over his mouth to keep out the smoke, Seth drove the wagon to a spot about twelve yards from the fire line—Goliath shied from going closer. The roaring, crackling flames licked tall and seemed to go on and on to the north, like an endless sea of violent red and orange, with spewing black smoke. Ashes blew over them, swirling all ghostly toward the town. He wondered what cabins, what lean-tos and soddies on the prairie had already been consumed by the flames.

  He jumped down and hobbled Goliath, for he was afraid the draft horse would panic and run off with the wagon. Then he hurried back to where Mazie was tied to the wagon bed. Fearful of the onrushing flames, she was trying to tug free of the leather line that held her to the wagon; her eyes rolled, reflecting the fire, her nostrils dilated, and she whinnied in fear.

  “It’ll be all right, girl,” he said, gentling her as best he could. He poured a little canteen water on her mane to soothe her and rubbed it in, whispering comfort till she quieted a little.

  Glancing left and right, he saw men on both sides about fifty yards off, some working on backfire cuts, others on horseback, pulling ropes dragging water-soaked blankets and gunnysacks between the cuts and the oncoming fire. Farther to the east, a wagon was coming from Black Creek, freighting hastily filled barrels of creek water.

  He drew his knife and set about cutting holes in the gunnies and the horse blankets in the back of the wagon, his eyes itching as smoke and ashes wafted over him. He dropped the gunnies and horse blankets into the water barrels and tied two ropes to his saddle horn, then knotted the other ends through the soaked blankets and sacks.

  Coughing, he untied Mazie, mounted, and set off, dragging the soaked blankets and sacks from the water barrels, quick and straight as he could, toward the fire. It must’ve seemed to the mare that he was about to ride right into the flames, for she soon balked, digging in her hooves, and looked back at him as if to ask what the devil he was about.

  “It’s okay, Mazie,” he said, patting her neck. “Come on, just a little closer!”

  He nudged her with his knees, and Mazie trotted reluctantly closer to the fire, Seth letting her c
ome at the flames at an angle. He felt the heat of the conflagration on his face now, and the roaring crackle of the wildfire muffled the whole world.

  Seth got as close as he dared and set off fast, so close to the flames that still burning bits of floating ember struck his clothing and smoldered there as he dragged the water-soaked blankets along the edge of the fire in hopes of slowing it.

  In a couple of minutes, he had to return to the barrels and start over. There was an ax in the wagon, and he wondered if he should just bust the barrels open. But if he did, all the water would rush out in one spot.

  Over and over he returned to the barrels, soaking the blankets and sacks, riding out again to drag them, using a gloved hand to beat out the smolders on his shirtsleeves and pant legs as he went. Mazie’s eyes were watering from the smoke, and so were his.

  Despite the bandanna, he could feel the soot in his lungs, and the fire was getting closer, so he had to unhobble Goliath and move the wagon back by leaning over from Mazie’s saddle to tug at the draft horse’s collar. Then he headed back to the fire. Sweat streaked through the ash coating the horse’s flanks as they went about their work, and Seth wished there was time to give her some water.

  The rippling wall of flames crackled and swept onward, barely slowed by his efforts. The wildfire glared bright, but the air around him was dark with soot, hiding the rest of the world, making it increasingly harder to see the others on the line. He felt alone in a world of flame and smoke, and he wondered if this was what hell was like.

  Seth finished another wetting sweep and saw that the backfires were rising now. He realized he was between the two walls of fire. Nearest way out was up ahead, but it was closing off, the two fires rushing together. A sickening vision flickered in his mind: himself and Mazie caught in the fire, burning to death together. . . .

  Fear licked up in him like a rising flame, and he spurred to a gallop, came to a place where the backfire, five feet high, was just meeting the prairie fire—and he jumped Mazie over the blaze, the horse screaming with pain as the tips of the flames singed her legs and belly.

  They came down in the clear, and Mazie dodged left, on her own initiative, galloping away from the fire.

  Close to the wagon, Mazie reluctantly let him take command and Seth dismounted, he and the mare both panting and coughing, his eyes running with smoke-induced tears. . . .

  The prairie fire roared, the sky blackened, and the wind drove ashes into Seth’s face as he took the hobble off of Goliath and tried to decide what else he could do to help. Where was Sol Hamer? He couldn’t see anyone clearly, just smoke-blurred silhouettes.

  Then he saw that the backfire was working; the prairie fire, close by, was shrinking back, running out of fuel. But there—about sixty yards to his left—it was breaking through where the firebreak hadn’t been dug, coming on like the prow of a ship of fire, headed straight toward Josette’s farm.

  “Seth!” Was that Josette’s voice calling thinly over the roar of the fire? “Seth!”

  Gripping Goliath’s harness to keep him from running, Seth turned and saw a woman’s shape forming in the thin veil of smoke. It became Josette, running to him, coughing as she came. She’d torn linen from a slip for a ragged bandanna, but it was already black with soot. She rushed up to him, clasping his arms. “You have to get out of here, Seth!”

  “I’ve got water in the wagon that needs to be used over there!” He pointed. “Where it’s breaking through!”

  “Those blankets aren’t going to stop that!”

  “If I can find Sol, he can drive the wagon, and I can bust the barrels, get the water out!”

  “He’s not here! I’ll drive the wagon!”

  “What! No!”

  She ignored his protests, scrambling up onto the buckboard and taking the reins.

  There was no time to argue. He shouted, “Back to the barn, Mazie!” and slapped the mare’s rump. She galloped off, still dragging the ropes, vanishing into the smoke. Climbing into the back of the wagon, he wondered if he’d ever see the horse again. He heard men calling frantically to one another where the fire was breaking through.

  “Go on, then, Josette!” he shouted.

  The wagon lurched forward, and he almost fell out the back, catching a barrel edge to steady himself. Josette was struggling to control Goliath with one hand, shouting furiously, “Go, horse! Hurry!” She used her other hand to whip the Clydesdale with a quirt.

  The wagon picked up speed, trundling over the rough ground toward the place where the fire was breaking through. Seth glimpsed men running from the fire, two of them stopping to lift a man who had fallen. And Seth himself was coughing almost continuously, finding it hard to get enough air.

  The wagon was close now. He caught up the ax handle, swinging the blade hard on the nearest barrel, smashing it open near the bottom so that water gushed out. Staggering to keep his balance in the swaying wagon, he swung the ax again and again, smashing barrels as Josette drove them past the fire, water running out the open back of the wagon. Smoke and steam gushed up where water streaming from the wagon struck the edge of the fire.

  Two more barrels to go, and he felt dizzy, swinging the ax, coughing for air, as Josette drove the wagon close to the outrunner tip of the fire, turning the buckboard to follow the intruding flames.

  Then there was one barrel left, and he kicked it over so it dumped out, the new rush of water pushing the rest of the liquid down onto the fire. . . .

  And then they were past it, and she turned the wagon back toward her little farm. He climbed up next to her as Goliath, eager to escape the flames, pulled them full bore out of the smoke. They reached the northern edge of the property, and he braked the wagon.

  Ashes still fell about them, but the air was almost clean here. They pulled off their bandannas, first coughing, then gulping in great breaths of air—only to cough again. Both of them spat soot off opposite sides of the wagon, and then they looked at each other and laughed in relief.

  “Where”—she coughed again—“is Mazie?”

  “I had to send her running, and like as not, some horse thief is sitting on her right now.”

  “I’ll hazard she’s”—she coughed and took a breath—“she’s around here somewhere, looking for you.”

  “I don’t know if she trusts me anymore. She got scorched out there. Lord willing, it’s not too bad.”

  They both turned to look at the fire. The prairie fire looked scanty now, the flames shrinking back as if cowed.

  “I believe that we stopped that breach in our lines, General Dubois.”

  She smiled and inspected him. “You’ve a lot of soot on your face, ’specially around your eyes.” She put a hand over her mouth and laughed till she coughed, just managing to say, “You look like a racoon!”

  “Well, you look like a lady racoon, so we’re suited, I reckon.”

  “Oh!” She put her hand to her face and looked at the soot on her finger. “Oh, but no!” And she swore softly in French.

  “What’d you expect, Josette?” He cleared his throat, leaned away to spit, and said, “You were driving a wagon hell-bent through a prairie fire!” He felt awash with emotion then, remembering the two of them working together on the wagon, so close to death. What he felt was too strong to express. All he could say was “It was—quite a sight.” He looked at her in wonder. “You are some woman, Josette. You are a woman to ride the river with.”

  She blushed through her soot and climbed down off the wagon. “You’d better go find your horse. And I’d better find some soap.” She gazed up at him for a long moment and said softly, “You’re some fella, Seth Coe.” Then she turned away; hitching up her skirts, she ran toward her farmhouse.

  As the smoke began to clear, he saw at least a hundred people coming out to gaze in awe at the remains of the fire. Flames were still licking up here and there. The land was burned black for quit
e a piece, but the fire seemed to have stopped short of the farms and small ranches near Prairie Fire. A cloud of black smoke hovered over the prairie, and where the occasional lonely tree had stood, there remained only a smoking black sketch of a tree trunk.

  Seth felt some pain in his right arm, looked down to see holes burned in his shirt. The flying embers had burned through in a few places, and he’d been seared, but he hadn’t felt it in all the excitement.

  “Damn it,” Seth muttered. “That was a new shirt.” He sighed. “Come on, Goliath, let’s go back to our barn. You and me need a rest. ’Specially you. And I want to check on the boss and his Daisy.” He turned the wagon toward the Hamer farm, watching for Sol, hoping he was safe and sound. He wished Franklin were with him. He’d have been a big help in the emergency. Franklin would have been impressed by Josette’s part in controlling the blaze, too. He’d have seen in her what Seth saw.

  Riding through thinning streamers of smoke, Seth had nearly reached the Hamer place when he saw the dark figure riding toward him. Coming through a veil of smoke, the rider was just the silhouette of a man on horseback. Ashes, some still flickering with fire, fluttered past the rider—who was wearing a bowler hat.

  Seth braked the wagon, tugging on Goliath’s reins as Hannibal Fisher emerged from the screen of smoke.

  Seth had no pistol on him, and his rifle was in Mazie’s saddle. The weapons hadn’t been needed for plowing nor for fighting a fire. Maybe the man meant him no harm.

  But Seth doubted that. Fisher was wanted for two murders.

  There was the ax in the back of the wagon. Seth supposed he could jump back there and take cover and take hold of the ax. It was all he had.

  He noticed another horseman cantering closer about a hundred yards beyond Fisher. Maybe one of Fisher’s men.