“John,” said Plant, “they tell me there’s a fire over at Stone Creek.  Ride over and see what it amounts to.”

“All right,” replied the Ranger.  “What help do I get?”

“Oh, you just ride over and see what it amounts to,” repeated Plant.

“I can’t do nothing alone fighting fire.”

“Well I can’t spare anybody now,” said Plant, “and it may not amount to nothing.  You go see.”

“All right,” said John.  “But if it does amount to something, it’ll get an awful start on us.”

He rode away.

“Old California John,” said Plant to Bob with a slight laugh.  “Crazy old fool.”  He raised his voice.  “Oh, you Jim!  John, he’s going to ride over.  You needn’t go.”

Bob nodded a good night, and walked back up the street.  At the store he found the sorrel horse standing untethered in the road.  He stopped to examine more closely the very ornate outfit.  California John came out carrying a grain sack half full of provisions.  This he proceeded to tie on behind the saddle, paying no attention to the young man.

“Well, Star, you got a long ways to go,” muttered the old man.

“You aren’t going over those mountains to-night, are you?” cried Bob.

The old man turned quite deliberately and inspected his questioner in a manner to imply that he had committed an indiscretion.  But the answer was in a tone that implied he had not.

“Certain sure,” he replied.  “The only way to handle a fire is to stick to it like death to a dead nigger.”

Bob returned to the hotel very thoughtful.  There he found Mr. Welton seated comfortably on the verandah, his feet up and a cigar alight.

“This is pretty good medicine,” he called to Bob.  “Get your feet up, you long-legged stork, and enjoy yourself.  Been exploring?”

“Listening to the band on the plaza,” laughed Bob.  He drew up a chair.  At that moment the dim figure of California John jingled by.  “I wouldn’t like that old fellow’s job.  He’s a ranger, and he’s got to go and look up a forest fire.”

“Alone?” asked Welton.  “Couldn’t they scare up any more?  Or are they over there already?”

“There’s three playing poker at the saloon.  Looked to me like a fool way to do.  He’s just going to take a look and then come back and report.”

“Oh, they’re heavy on reports!” said Welton.  “Where is the fire; did you hear?”

“Stone Creek—­wherever that is.”

“Stone Creek!” yelled Welton, dropping the front legs of his chair to the verandah with a thump.  “Why, our timber adjoins Stone Creek!  You come with me!”

II

Welton strode away into the darkness, followed closely by Bob.  He made his way as rapidly as he could through the village to an attractive house at the farther outskirts.  Here he turned through the picket gate, and thundered on the door.

It was almost immediately opened by a meek-looking woman of thirty.