A LUCKY CHANCE ASSIGNMENT 



By WALTER J. MORRILL 



^~~^ N the summer of 1908 we were 



worn out with forest fires on 

 the Pike. They came in 

 bunches. One of the worst was on 

 Elk Creek. 



A new guard, Joseph E. Smith, was 

 the first to report it to our headquarters 

 in Denver. He had frazzled nerves 

 acquired in his capacity as city editor 

 on a Denver paper, which was fight- 

 ing us at that time. He needed out- 

 door employment for a season, and we 

 sorely needed on that newspaper staff 

 some one with a little first-hand knowl- 

 edge. Moreover, few were applying 

 for positions. He was a good fellow, 

 the acme of urbanity, and the quadru- 

 ple extract of politeness. Yet we 

 thought it wise to fill his days with 

 arduous labor, while we trusted that 

 his natural instinct would lead him 

 to employ his evenings in literary work. 

 Accordingly, he was assigned a reason- 

 ably long patrol in dry weather, and 

 on rainy days he was given a trail to 

 build. His principal equipment con- 

 sisted of an ax, shovel, and a quantity 

 of yellow scratch paper. 



Within a few days there came from 

 him a long distance message : "A hor- 

 rible big fire on Elk Creek." Was this 

 some newspaper scare line stuff? I left 

 for Baily's on the next train; recruited 

 all the available native force; took an- 

 other glance at the billowing smoke 

 12 miles north, and telephoned the 

 Supervisor for 30 men from the Den- 

 ver. 



We fought against odds that night. 

 It seemed at first as fruitless as old 

 King Canute's endeavor to stop the 

 ocean tide, but finally we held the line 

 on one side. Then help came, and 

 with it two Forest Assistants to serve 

 as my lieutenants. Two more days of 

 rounding in and holding the fire fol- 

 lowed. By this time the editor-guard 

 was exhausted. He had served well 

 as a mounted aid to carry messages 

 from different portions of our front. 

 We now had the fight well in hand. 



It occurred to me to assign the guard 

 to the comparatively easy task of scout- 

 ing the district from a divide. It was 

 possible that other fires might start in 

 distant places in that wild region. In 

 the forenoon he set out with a young 

 ranchman on this seemingly unimpor- 

 tant mission. The divide was two 

 miles or more to the right of our sur- 

 rounding fire; its ascent was rough. 



An hour later the unexpected, the 

 disastrous thing happened. The wind 

 shifted and became rapidly stronger 

 until it was violent. Smouldering 

 snags burst into flames; embers car- 

 ried across our north line. After one 

 low branching spruce had flared with 

 a roar, and then another, soon a crown 

 fire was racing up the gulch, preceded 

 by swiftly flowing low clouds of dingy 

 smoke. Up the canyon the flames as- 

 cended with incredible speed, as fire 

 sweeps up a soot-filled smoke stack 

 or the chimney of a foundry. Since 

 the guard and the ranchman should 

 be well on their way, perhaps they 

 could reach timber line. So we re- 

 arranged our forces on each side of 

 the canyon along the high walls. We 

 could not head it. Valuable timber on 

 either side stretched away for miles. 

 The gulch must burn, but we hoped 

 to confine the fire to it. 



I felt no small anxiety concerning 

 the two men. Occasionally I ascended 

 to a rocky point, but at no time did I 

 see them. Nor was it likely that I 

 could, since the distance was consid- 

 erable, and at times the smoke ob- 

 scured. I looked nervously for smoke 

 columns on the other side of the di- 

 vide, although I doubted whether 

 brands could carry to the adjoining 

 watershed. 



A sleepless night of worry and patrol 

 inspection followed. My thoughts 

 dwelt upon the task that I feared would 

 be mine on the morrow, when the 

 gulch could be traveled. Daylight 

 came, and I went to camp. The night 

 men had come in for a few hours' 



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