Prairie Fire

by Catherine Palmer

  “I wasn’t at the Easton lynching, and Bill Hermann knows it.”

  Jack turned on his former companion. “Don’t try to drag me into that mess, Bill. You know I wasn’t there that night, and I’ll be jiggered if—”

  “You were there, Cornwall,” Hermann interrupted. “Admit it.

  You were there. You saw everything that happened. You know exactly who done what, and you can get the fellers off the hook. Come on, Jack, stand up for the old bunch.”

  “I’d gone to Sedalia earlier that day. I was with … with somebody.” Jack raked a hand through his hair. He knew he couldn’t prove himself—not without causing more trouble than ever. “I never saw one thing that happened out at the Easton cabin. You expect me to get up there on the stand and lie, Bill?”

  “I expect you to do whatever it takes to defend the men you once called brothers. Deputy, looks to me like he’s resisting.”

  “Now hold on a minute,” Seth Hunter said, holding up both hands. He turned on Bill Hermann. “Listen, sir. We’re in the middle of a proceeding here. Whatever trouble happened between you and Jack Cornwall can be worked out later. We’ve got to get on with our vote before the storm hits.”

  “Then make it snappy,” the lawman said as he took off his hat and scratched his head. “That rain’s gonna make me miss my supper.”

  “All right, men,” Seth said. “I’m going to give Jack five minutes to state his case.”

  “He’s had more than a month to prove himself,” Jimmy countered. “’Tis time to vote. How many think Jack Cornwall and his family ought to stay here in Hope? Raise your hand.”

  “I have a right to speak!” Jack roared. “This is my life you’re messing with, O’Toole.”

  “I vote to keep the blacksmith,” LeBlanc said, standing and lifting his hand. “I have many repairs on my mill. Maybe the man makes trouble, but he does good work.”

  “I’m for letting him stay,” Seth said. “Jack had the guts to come back here and carve out a business. He may have a hot head, but there’s not a man among us who wouldn’t have to own up to a fault or two. Jack, you have my vote.”

  Rolf Rustemeyer stood up. “I, too, think is goot this Jack Cornwall to stay here,” he said. “I haf chance to come from Germany and make my farm. Here Cornwall can haf chance. Here Cornwall can stay.”

  “That’s three,” Jimmy said. “Any others? All right, how many of you vote that we ask the Cornwalls to leave Hope?”

  Rippeto’s hand shot up, followed by Laski’s and those of the other farmers. Jimmy counted the men and included himself in the tally. “That’s three for staying and seven for leaving. I say it’s clear—”

  “What kind of justice is this?” Caitrin cried. “’Tis only fair that you give Jack Cornwall the chance to speak for himself.”

  “Sit down!” a chorus of men’s voices erupted.

  “More trouble!” Jimmy cried. “Now Cornwall has the women rising up against us, so he does. You’re voted out, Jack Cornwall. And as for you, Caitrin Murphy, I’ll say it again—good riddance to bad rummage! You’d better pack your trunks—”

  “Enough with your blather, Jimmy O’Toole!” Sheena said, leaping up. “Caitrin is my sister, so she is, and you’ll not put her on any boat to Ireland!”

  Jack took a step forward and squared his shoulders. He’d have his say, blast it, and not a man would drive him out before. He glanced out the window. The rusty cloud had transformed into a creeping tide of flames that lit the sky and sent up the black billows of smoke everyone had mistaken for rain clouds.

  “Fire!” he hollered. “Fire headed this way!”

  Men raced to the windows. “Fire! Fire!”

  Sheena began to scream. Rosie ran to Seth. Heart slamming against his chest, Jack climbed up onto the chair. “Listen up, men,” he shouted. “I’m a blacksmith. In the army, I learned how to handle a runaway fire. I’ll tell you what we’ve got to do.”

  The farmers quickly left the window and gathered around him.

  “Hitch up your plows,” Jack told them, “and run a half dozen or so fresh furrows around your houses and barns. A few yards of bare dirt can hold back a raging fire. The minute you’re finished, grab all the grain sacks and buckets you can lay your hands on, and ride down here to the Bluestem.”

  “What about the women?” Seth asked.

  “Take the smallest children across the bridge to the O’Tooles’ house. The fire won’t jump the creek. Then all the women and the older children meet on this side of the Bluestem and start soaking grain sacks and filling buckets. My leg won’t let me do much against the fire, so I’ll hitch my horse to a wagon and haul the sacks and buckets out to the front line.”

  “But what are we to do against such a blaze?” Jimmy asked. “Sure, I’ve never fought a fire in my life!”

  “Some of you men take the wet sacks and beat out the flames. Others throw buckets of water. I’ll start a backfire if I need to. The wind is driving the blaze this direction, and we don’t want to lose the town. Let’s go, everybody. And while you work—pray!”

  Jack gritted his teeth against the pain as he stepped down from the chair. The farmers poured through the mercantile door. Jimmy huddled over Sheena, consoling her and begging her to stay abed in their soddy. Rosie gave Seth a quick embrace and started for the door, but he caught her hand and drew her close again. As they talked, Caitrin approached Jack.

  “What about Bill Hermann?” she asked. “Jack, he says you know things about that murder.”

  “I wasn’t at the Easton lynching,” he said. “I told you that before. I may be hotheaded, but I’m no liar. Don’t you believe me, Caitrin?”

  He read the doubt in her green eyes and a fist knotted at the base of his stomach. He would fight the men of Hope to be allowed to stay here. He would battle Bill Hermann and the laws of Kansas and Missouri to be allowed to get his way. But if Caitrin lost faith in him …

  “Oh, Jack,” she said. “How has it come to this?”

  He caught her by the waist and pulled her roughly against him. “What it’s come to is that I love you, Caitrin Murphy. I love you, and I want you for my wife. I don’t care what these rascals try to do to separate us, I won’t leave you. I’ll stand by you the rest of my life, and I’ll make us a good home. A happy home. But I need to hear the words again, Caitrin. Those three words.”

  She stared up at him, her eyes filling with tears. “Jack—”

  “Come on, Caitie!” Sheena cried out, grabbing her sister’s hand. “Sure, the whole place is going to burn down around us if we don’t get busy. Save your gabbin’ for later.”

  Caitrin swallowed. “Be careful, Jack,” she said.

  He held his breath as she pulled away from him and ran out of the mercantile.

  “Lucy?” Caitrin sprinted into her soddy and looked around. “What are you doing here?”

  The woman’s head emerged from the hiding place she had made for herself. “I came back. I don’t want to go away, Caitrin.”

  “Oh, Lucy, a prairie fire is coming. Sure, you must go back to your mother.”

  “I’ll look after Lucy,” Sheena said, entering the soddy. Her cheeks were flushed. “I’ll take her to our soddy, and she can bake cinnamon buns for the brablins. ’Twill take our thoughts away from the fire.”

  The young woman rose from behind the bed. “Mrs. O’Toole … I …”

  “Come with me, Lucy. Help me.”

  The young woman held her hand toward Sheena. “Tell me what to do, Mrs. O’Toole.”

  Embracing Lucy warmly, Sheena led her out of the soddy. Caitrin gathered grain sacks and towels and hurried away to defend her town.

  Black, pungent smoke clutched at Jack’s throat as he drove Scratch down the line of men fighting the prairie fire. The horse tossed its head and neighed in terror of the flames, but Jack kept the creature moving parallel to the blaze. Dusk had settled as the fire crept ever forward, a bright, devouring glow that ate its way toward Hope.

  Seth Hunte
r’s new frame house stood directly in the fire’s path. The shed would go first. Then the house would be consumed. Finally the new barn filled with the last winter hay would explode into flames. After that, it would be only a matter of time until the fire reached Caitrin’s little home. The heavy prairie sod wouldn’t burn, of course, but the smokehouse, the door, and the window frames would. The mercantile would be next—wood shingles, wood sign, new wood floor. All Caitrin’s hard work would go up in flames. The new church would follow. Jack’s smithy stood last in line before the Bluestem Creek would put a hissing stop to the crackle and flicker of this ravenous enemy.

  “You’d better get the valuables out of your house,” Jack called to Seth as the homesteader unloaded a pile of dripping grain sacks. “Photographs, family treasures, that kind of thing.”

  Face blackened with soot, Seth stared up at Jack. “I spent all winter building that house. That’s Rosie’s …” The man looked away, fighting emotion. “That’s Rosie’s home.”

  “We’ll do all we can to keep it safe, Seth. But I won’t promise we can hold these flames at bay.”

  “Can you start a backfire?”

  Jack studied the line of men, black silhouettes whipping at the tongues of orange flame and tossing bucket after bucket onto the conflagration. And still the wind pushed the fire ever forward. Behind the choking smoke, lightning flashed. The promise of rain. The hope of God’s provision. But would it come in time? Would it be enough to stop the onslaught?

  “Backfires are tricky,” Jack said. “They can get away from you. If the wind takes this one the wrong direction—”

  “It’s worth a try. We’re getting nowhere.”

  Jack tried to calm Scratch as he assessed the situation. “All right, but I’ll need your help. We’ve got to keep fighting the big blaze until we can burn off a strip of grass a few yards away. Then we’ve got to get the men out of the way.”

  “We can do it,” Seth said. “Help us, Jack.”

  They wouldn’t have much time, and the wind was against them. But Jack pressed Scratch back toward the creek to alert the women and to pick up another load of sacks and buckets. Rosie had given out hours before and had joined Sheena and Lucy across the creek. With babies on the way, the women couldn’t afford to push themselves too hard. But Jack was pleased to find Caitrin leading the others as they worked together at the creek.

  Racing back to the fire, Jack prayed God would give him the wisdom to start the backfire in the right place. He prayed the wind would die down. He prayed the rain would fall. He prayed the homesteaders would have the stamina to keep fighting.

  He could see the farmers now, gathering around Seth. Even Bill Hermann and the deputy had joined the effort. As the men divided into two groups, one to hold the big fire at bay and the other to manage the backfire, Jack climbed down from the wagon. He couldn’t remember his shoulder ever hurting as much as his leg now burned. But there was no time to tend it.

  “Stay near me,” he told the group of men assigned to help him. “I’m going to light a line of fire. You fan it against the wind, keep it low, keep it safe. Once you’ve let the fire burn the grass for a couple of yards, beat it out and move to another place along the line. We can’t let this thing get away from us.”

  As the men ranged out around him, Jack gathered a clump of dried prairie grass and lit it. Then he began moving slowly parallel to the encroaching fire and setting the grass aflame with his makeshift torch. The dry stems crackled like tinder, exploding as the sparks touched them. Alongside Jack, the men tended the backfire, carefully fanning into the wind.

  Once he had lit the backfire and it was successfully burning a barrier of charred grass between the prairie fire and the town, Jack made his way around the flames to the other men. “Seth!” he called. “Come on out now! It’s time to let it go.”

  Dark shadows against the scarlet light, the exhausted farmers left their posts and hurried to escape the encroaching flames of the backfire. As the men gathered in safety, they stood spellbound, watching the two lines of fire move ever closer toward each other.

  “I think it’ll work,” Seth said. “I think we’ve got it licked.”

  “But fire can coming around?” Rolf asked, pointing to the vast stretch of prairie untouched by the backfire. “The big fire can coming this way around and still gif trouble?”

  “Maybe,” Jack said. “We’ll keep an eye on it.”

  “Ja, goot.” Rustemeyer clapped him on the back. “You helpen us. Now Jimmy O’Toole can see you are goot man. Where Jimmy is?”

  Seth looked around, studying the soot-covered faces of the farmers. “Jimmy?” he called. “Jimmy?”

  Jack scanned the flames. In a narrow patch of unburned grass between the prairie fire and the backfire, a lone silhouette whipped at the roaring blaze with a wet grain sack. Unhearing. Unseeing. Unaware of his peril.

  It was Jimmy O’Toole.

  CHAPTER 18

  FOR AN INSTANT, Jack felt sure he was staring through the door of hell itself—and there stood Jimmy O’Toole, right in the middle of it. Good riddance to bad rummage, the Irishman had said to Caitrin. The words could just as easily be spoken to Jimmy himself. Let him burn, Jack thought. He’s a troublemaker—a spiteful, vengeful imp of a man without a redeeming bone in his skinny body. With Jimmy out of the picture, Caitrin would have no reason to hold back. Would she?

  But what kind of man was Jack to stand by and let another die? The words he himself had spoken came back to him. Bear one another’s burdens … Faith, hope, and love … the greatest of these is love.

  Love.

  Grabbing a handful of wet sacks, Jack limped toward the fire. He could hear Seth shouting, ordering him not to go, but he picked up his pace. Rolf tried to catch his arm. The other farmers bellowed at him. “Too late,” they cried. “It’s too late!”

  Jimmy turned now and saw the backfire creeping toward him. Eyes wide, face skeletal, he stared in helpless horror at the other men safe beyond the blaze. Jack edged forward across the blackened, smoking grass. Whipping at the flames that licked his trousers, he gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the pain that seared his injured leg. With agonizing slowness, he beat a path through the low-burning backfire.

  “Cornwall!” Jimmy cried. Coughing, stripping away his shirt, the Irishman straggled back and forth on the narrow strip of unburned grass, looking for a way out. “Cornwall, help me!”

  “I’m coming,” Jack called. He lashed at the fire, smothering flames, pushing forward. Smoke swirled around his head and filled his lungs. Choking, he paused and bent over to gasp for air.

  Jimmy’s voice came to him through the pall. “Cornwall, Cornwall!”

  “Where are you?” Jack cried. “Where are you, O’Toole?”

  Silence overwhelmed him as he stumbled onto the unburned patch. He could see nothing. Heat stung his skin. The crackle and snap of burning brush swirled around his ears.

  “Jimmy O’Toole!”

  A low cough caught his attention, and Jack fell to his knees beside the crumpled man. Lungs crying out in agony, he lifted the Irishman onto his shoulders. His leg might give out, Jack knew, but his arms were strong. With Jimmy’s limp body sprawled over his back, Jack struggled to stand. God, help me. Help me!

  Inching upward, he straightened. Which way? Which way out? He coughed, sure he would choke on the acrid smoke that filled his chest.

  I am the way. Follow me.

  Jack thought he heard the words, but he could see nothing. He staggered forward.

  Follow me. Follow me.

  Stumbling, aware of flames that caught the hems of his trousers and wreathed his ankles, Jack followed. Night cloaked him like a heavy, black blanket. His shoulders ached. His legs cramped. His lungs clamped down, strangling him.

  Follow me.

  Seth’s face suddenly appeared and blessed arms gathered Jack in. The weight lifted from his shoulders. He drifted upward, sure he was floating. Out of hell and into heaven, he thought.


  Follow me.

  Caitrin heaved the dripping bucket out of the creek and turned toward the fire. Across the moonlit prairie she spotted a cluster of men moving toward her like wraiths. Flames flickered behind them, smoke billowed above them. Whips of white lightning cracked through the air.

  “Jack!” Caitrin knew immediately he was one of the men they carried among them. “Oh no, ’tis Jack!”

  She dropped the heavy bucket, grabbed her skirts, and started running.

  “Here is two manners,” Rolf said, leaving the group and trotting toward the women. “Is Cornwall and O’Toole both.”

  “What about the fire?”

  “Is stop.”

  “To my soddy then!” Caitrin cried. “Follow me!”

  Unable to hold back her tears, she led the men through the night toward the low mound that formed the roof of her small house. They stepped over the boards of the broken door and carried their two comrades inside. Caitrin lit lamps as the men laid Jimmy and Jack side by side on the bed.

  “They’re neither one breathing!” Seth said. “One time a fellow in the army fell out of a tree, and the captain of our troop breathed the breath of life right back into him. You reckon we oughta try it, Miss Murphy?”

  “Show me,” she said, swiping the back of her hand across her damp cheek.

  Seth leaned over Jimmy, clamped two fingers on the man’s nose, and breathed deeply into the Irishman’s mouth. Caitrin placed her lips over Jack’s mouth, held his nose tightly, and forced a breath down into his lungs. She saw his chest rise. As it fell, the cloying scent of smoke escaped his lungs.

  “I love you, Jack Cornwall,” she whispered through trembling lips. “Sure, you’re not a perfect man, but I love you all the same. No matter the consequences, I want to be your wife. Now breathe, Jack. Please, breathe!”

  She bent over the man again and forced air down into his lungs.

  Seth lifted away from Jimmy. “It worked on that soldier,” he said. “I don’t know what’s wrong, Miss Murphy.”