Johnny reached for his radio. “Manion, this is Reger.”
No response.
“Simons, this is Reger.”
“Go ahead.”
“We’re back at the fire, near where we left you. Which way do we go to get to your location?”
“Either direction. South, then west to get to me. North, then west to Manion.”
“Who needs bodies? And how’s it going?”
“Other than changing plans multiple times, okay. Christy, need them your way?”
Another wait, then, “That would be good.”
Johnny, listening closely, said, “What do you mean, changing plans?”
“No luck putting line around what we burned this morning. We were lucky to get around both flanks. Afternoon winds. All we could do was try to keep up. We herded it north and west. We’re moving as fast as we can on the south side, no problem. Christy’s squad is pushing it west. She’s got all the heat.”
Johnny looked at Jack. “Guess we’re heading north.” An ear still to the radio, he took off at a fast clip. “Christy, we’re on our way.”
They found the squad, pushing northwest. With two extra bodies it wasn’t long before they hit slickrock. To the south, Luiz and another ranger arrived after sunset and helped Simon’s squad reach the body of the fire.
Tied in, Johnny plopped down to assess the situation.
Jack watched him. Not exactly as planned. Not exactly bad. Tomorrow’s winds will be make or break.
Chapter 6
Jack stood on open ground, burned-over grass at his feet, black all around. He stared across at the next ridge. Open flame tore through small pines and oak brush, but few of the big trees. The flame at their feet burned well, and some would possibly die—their growth producing cambium layers boiled—but most would survive.
Wind whipped under the back of his helmet and he quickly pulled back the flap of his belt weather kit, slipped out the anemometer and checked the wind speed. Gusts to thirty.
Gray Beard—Simons—appeared, walking the line, carrying a paper sack. He handed it over. “Special delivery. Lunch, sent up from the canyon.”
“Thanks. Ready to get back to your park?”
“Whenever. Did Foss make it back?”
“I’m sure. We’ll get you home, don’t worry. Hope we didn’t make your life harder.”
“Hey, you dealt with his bullshit. Don’t see that happen much. Last year he was a pain, this year he’s arrogant. Something about his brother becoming a bigger big shot. Somewhere back east. Throws it around like he’s next in line for some big job. Intimidates the hell out of the Chief.”
“I can imagine.”
“Know his brother?”
Jack’s jaw tightened. “Unfortunately.”
“Any good?”
“Guess.”
“Not surprised. The cut of the cloth.”
“Wind is supposed to drop off in the next hour or so. We just might make it through the burn period.”
—·—
After changed plans, bracing for the worst, and enduring a day of winds, all of that was now past. Johnny’s original plan again made sense. The Pistol Creek Fire could be allowed to burn, or, as said in bureaucratic-speak, ‘managed.’
—·—
Johnny drove, and hardly slowed as he steered the truck onto Culberson Ranch. One of the firefighters held onto the dash board. He looked blue in the gills.
“Quit worrying, Pete,” Johnny said. He nodded at the blackened trees in the headlights. “See that. Last year’s fire. Liquor me up and I’ll tell you war stories. Jack could tell ya more, but it’d take a hell of a lot a liquor to get him talking. I’m cheaper, plus I tell better stories.”
Jack groaned.
At the bottom of the hill the truck bounced onto the meadow. Johnny slowed only when they neared the ranch house. “Element of surprise,” he said.
Hardly surprised, Kip Culberson met them under the cottonwoods at the front of the house. “Come in, boys.” Gray hair combed back, denim shirt crisp, the rancher pointed them toward the casita’s courtyard patio. “We want to hear what happened. Everything. The fire, the rescue, everything.”
One truck of firefighters had already arrived, and since Christy and two others had stayed behind to monitor the fire, the wait was on this truck. “Sorry we’re late, Kip,” Jack said. “Contrary to appearances, Johnny actually does have a responsible bone in his body. We had to drag him away. But it’s nice of you to feed us.”
“Our pleasure. We thought it’d be better than army rations or sack lunches.”
Kelly’s mother scurried out a side door, carrying a tray of food. The streaks of gray in Juanita’s hair only made her an older version of Kelly. She was a beautiful woman of Spanish heritage. With her constant air of contentment, entertaining suited her. She saw Jack and stopped.
“Juan!” she shouted.
“Juan?” Johnny whispered. “Is she talking to me?”
“No,” Jack whispered back. “Our little joke.” He lit up. “Juanita.” He walked toward her, trying to hide a limp.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.” Jack gave her a peck on the cheek, careful not to brush against her.
“Do I have leprosy or something?”
“No, I do. I’m dirty. Dust and smoke. You don’t want me touching you.”
“Don’t be foolish.” She handed her tray to Johnny and smothered Jack with a hug.
The side door swung open, and Kelly stepped out, a bottle of wine in one hand, long-stemmed clay goblets threaded through the fingers on the other. Her eyes opened wide and she rushed through the horde.
Jack grabbed her shoulders. “Whoa, careful.”
She pushed back his arms, and wrapped hers around him. “Ooh,” she said, looking taken aback. “You smell of all sorts of things.”
He laughed. “Mind if I jump in the shower? I’d breathe easier.”
“Tell us about the rescue first. We’re dying to know.”
“I promise, it’ll be better if I can breathe.” He pulled away. “Kip, can I borrow a shirt?”
“I’ll hang one on the door knob.”
—·—
Stripped down and standing at the mirror, he checked for bruises. One on each shoulder, one on a hip. Both elbows. Both knees.
He climbed in the shower, washed away layers of dirt, dust, and sweat, then let the warmth soak into his muscles and down to the bone.
—·—
Jack returned, his hair wet and combed, wearing a shirt too big in the body and short in the sleeves, but it was clean.
“How are the enchiladas?” he asked, approaching the long, plank table.
They were going over well. He filled his plate and took a seat with Kelly and Johnny.