“What can you see?”
“Over in the direction of the sea. Looks to be about fifteen miles or so away. Can’t tell easily. Fog’s coming back again. But it looks like smoke.”
IT WAS WORKING.
Ryan felt his heart leap with excitement and delight as he ran as fast as he dared down the slope of the canyon, weaving and dodging between the trees.
The main flow of the fire was to his left, raging through the conifers, igniting the underbrush, flames reaching into the lower branches of the pines, bursting from tree to tree. The smoke was still relatively thin, rising in a boiling column, darkening the blue sky.
Ahead of him he could hear the constant squealing of the herd of mutie pigs, driven into a wild panic by the pursuing flames. Every now and then Ryan would glimpse some of the animals, scampering at speed, moving faster than he was.
For a moment he stopped, breathing heavily, wiping sweat from his forehead, moving the patch to clear it from the puckered socket of his missing left eye. He squinted through the drifting smoke to try to see whether Dean had heard the signal and had managed to set his own fire going, but he couldn’t make it out from where he was.
Ryan continued to run toward the main trail.
NOW EVERYONE, including Bill Rainey, was in the bedroom with Doc and Krysty, crowding around the window. Trader turned away first. “I say that’s two separate fires,” he shouted. “It’s two fucking fires.” Jak nodded in agreement. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Two fires.”
DEAN WAS WAVING HIS ARMS, whooping and jumping up and down in a cloud of choking gray dust, cheering on the stampeding pigs ahead of him.
He saw his father emerging from the billowing smoke and the shifting threads of fog. “See ’em go!”
The boy had his retrieved Browning in his right hand, ready to encourage any stragglers among the animals.
His fire was burning well, completely blocking the trail to the east, forcing the mutie creatures to funnel down the ravine to the west. “Which way we goin’, Dad?” There was a temptation to withdraw to the ville, skirting the flames by climbing above them, but that would mean missing out on the final act of the drama. When you had a good plan that seemed to be working, you wanted to see it all the way through.
“After the pigs,” he replied, jerking his thumb toward the camp of the brushwooders.
“Think they’ll run when they see the stampede coming?”
“Won’t have much choice,” Ryan told him.
MOST OF THE MEN AND WOMEN in the camp had celebrated their earlier victory by consuming large quantities of home brew, and were rotten drunk. Some had been sick, and others had passed out. One or two had been copulating openly. Children wandered around, helping themselves from the caldrons of food that were beginning to burn over open fires.
Ditchdown and Straub were sitting together at the western edge of the village, sipping at a jug of home brew. The leader of the brushwooders was three parts drunk, belching as he took another pull on the jug.
“We hit them tonight?” he mumbled.
Straub was three parts sober. He looked around at the squalid scene of debauchery. “If we can sober them up in time. Way that they look right now, I wouldn’t back them against a handful of angry rabbits.”
“They’ll be fine and jim-dandy when the time comes, old friend. You see.”
Straub sniffed at the air, his forehead wrinkling. “What’s that?” he asked, standing, uncoiling himself from the dirt with a pantherish grace.
“Usual stink of sulfur,” Ditchdown replied unconcernedly. “Fog’s coming back, as well. Wind must be westerly for the smell to be”
“Stupe!”
“What?”
“Wind’s northerly, veering easterly. Freshening. It’s not the sulfur. It’s wood smoke. Look. There’s a fire burning toward the ville.”
Ditchdown set the jug down, where it fell over, its contents gurgling into the thirsty soil. With an effort he staggered to his feet, peering toward the narrow canyon that bore the trail east, bunking owlishly. “By the gods! You’re right, Straub, old comrade.” He ran his fingers through his tousled hair, brushing the white scar.