Murphy, arriving in the lead, scanned the haze which hung along the living moss.
"Sure, it's a foolish fire, sorr," he muttered, "burrowing like a mole gone mad. Rest aisy, Misther Burleson; we'll scotch the divil that done this night's worruk!--bad cess to the dhirrty scut!"
"Never mind that, Murphy. Miss Elliott, are they to dig it out?"
The men, ranged in an uneven line, stood stupidly staring at the long vistas of haze. The slim fire-warden wheeled her mare to face them, speaking very quietly, explaining how deep to dig, how far a margin might be left in safety, how many men were to begin there, and at what distances apart.
Then she picked ten men and bade them follow her.
Burleson rode in the rear, motioning Rolfe to his stirrup.
"What do you think of it?" he asked, in a low voice.
"I think, sir, that one of those damned Storms did it--"
"I mean, what do you think about the chances? Is it serious?"
"That young lady ahead knows better than I do. I've seen two of these here underground fires: one was easy killed; the other cleaned out three thousand acres."
Burleson nodded. "I think," he said, "that you had better go back to the lodge and get every spare man. Tell Rudolf to rig up a wagon and bring rations and water for the men. Put in something nice for Miss Elliott--see to that, Rolfe; do you hear?"
"And, Rolfe, bring feed for the horses--and see that there are a couple of men to watch the house and stables--" He broke out, bitterly, "It's a scoundrelly bit of work they've done!--" and instantly had himself under control again. "Better go at once, Rolfe, and caution the men to remain quiet under provocation if any trespassers come inside."
By afternoon they had not found the end of the underground fire. The live trail had been followed and the creeping terror exterminated for half a mile; yet, although two ditches had been dug to cut the fire off from farther progress, always ahead the haze hung motionless, stretching away westward through the pines.
Now a third trench was started--far enough forward this time, for there was no blue haze visible beyond the young hemlock growth.
The sweating men, stripped to their undershirts, swung pick and axe and drove home their heavy shovels. Burleson, his gray flannel shirt open at the throat, arms bared to the shoulder, worked steadily among his men; on a knoll above, the fire-warden sat cross-legged on the pine-needles, her straight young back against a tree. On her knees were a plate and a napkin. She ate bits of cold partridge at intervals; at intervals she sipped a glass of claret and regarded Burleson dreamily.