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316 carpet. Dried grass gave to lavender in the distance; the wilted foliage of the brush and small trees took on a counterfeit vividness; far to the north and westward a veil of smoke hazed the horizon. But it was not the expanse of devastation, not the ominous smoke veil, that caused Luke to sit forward sharply. It was the long, blue-green line of the pine trees, Foraker's Folly, standing there in the middle distance.

"Pine?" he asked tersely and Rowe answered and talked volubly. But Luke did not listen. He sank back when they dipped into the valley, straightened again when they could see the forest, this time with the crowns of dominant trees distinct against the sky.

And then they were in the protecting cool of its shade, crossing the outside fire line, leaving the fringe of oak brush behind, driving into the clear stand of white pine.

From afar their progress had been watched. Black Joe, perched in Watch Pine, had caught a reflected flash of light. He followed the progress with his glass, dividing his attention between it and the fire to the northward. He called down to Helen:

"Big car makin' in toward Snipe Meadow."

He offered to go over himself and watch, but the girl shook her head. In a moment she shoved her canoe into the river, paddled down stream, rounded two bends, beached and went ashore, stopping to listen, but hearing at first only the sough of wind in the tops.

Wilcox looked around to smile into Luke's face.

"It isn't the kind of pine you know, Mr. Taylor, but—"