370 WHEAT AND WOMAN 



Then came the sound of wheels. A buggy 

 drawn by a little Canadian pony, prairie-bred and 

 fearless as fast, flew on its way between the fences 

 of flame until it reached the black waste of our own 

 making which no flame could leap. It was Roddy 

 McMahon, and his wife was with him, and her 

 baby in her arms and two small children in the 

 bottom of the buggy. 



" So you burned the old guard," he commenced. 

 " 'Twas a wise act. You've saved a burn-out all 

 right." 



" The fires will meet in the dip by the gateway 

 and extinguish each other," I answered, " but there 

 is still a wide opening to the worst danger. If 

 it makes its way up the hill through the little 

 pasture field it will catch us by the gateway of 

 the big pasture close to the oat-rick, where we 

 dare not fire a guard with the wind facing. If the 

 rick fires we must still be burnt out." 



" Guess that's right enough," said he. " There's 

 Joe Collinson. Here, Joe, give me hand to get 

 the team on plough. Guess we have got to plough 

 up some sort guard round the oat-stack rick 'fore 

 the fire can get round." 



The sulky plough was away on the land, the shear 

 of the hand plough blunt as a board ; the frost was 

 only just out of the surface of the land, and the 

 newly broken guard made but a poor show as a 

 defence to the giant straw-rick which loomed 

 behind it. The little gathering had grown to the 

 number of a dozen, neighbours who, realizing that 

 I was straight in a line with the danger that menaced 

 us all, but for which Canadians and old-timers are 

 usually prepared, had come to offer a helping hand. 



