The Big Burn

by Jeanette Ingold

  Frightened, Lizbeth wished they were closer to downtown and other people. Where they were now the only possible assistance was two young soldiers on the other side of the street.

  "Or maybe Hilly decided to visit your daddy first," the horrible man was saying. "Take grievances in order, so to speak. How 'bout it, junior, when's the last time you heard how your daddy's doing?"

  Jarrett released Lizbeth's elbow then. "Go on," he told her. "Now. I'll catch up."

  "But..."

  "Now."

  She started walking but heard Jarrett say, "I want to know what you're threatening."

  "So you can do what?" the man asked. "Help your daddy like you helped your brother out in the woods?" He laughed. "You learned to walk without tripping yet?"

  Lizbeth heard a sharp, pained exclamation and turned to see Jarrett reeling, one leg buckling under him. The man who'd been talking kicked Jarrett's other leg, right behind the knee, and Jarrett fell forward. One of the other men caught him and shoved him back to the scar-faced man, and then all three were on him.

  Lizbeth screamed.

  Wallace

  August 15, Afternoon

  "Let's go," Seth said, breaking into a run. The white boy was on the ground now, getting his ribs kicked.

  The girl tore by, going the other way, skirts jerked up. "I'll bring help," she called as she passed Seth.

  Reaching the men, Seth grabbed the arm of the nearest one and ordered, "Let him up."

  The man whirled around and, seeing Seth, said, "Soldiers! Let's get out of here,"

  But then one of his companions, a vicious-looking man with a scar on his face and something wrong with his eyes, said, "Just one, and he don't look like no soldier. He's the wrong color."

  Where was Abel? Seth turned for a quick look behind but couldn't spot his friend.

  "Bet he stole that uniform," the scar-faced man said.

  Ignoring him, Seth reached down to give the white boy a hand up. As he did, a boot toe slammed into Seth's temple, knocking him from his feet and sending pain shooting through him. For a moment he was blinded, and when his vision came back he saw a booted leg pulling back to kick again.

  In the next instant the white boy rolled over and grabbed the man's other leg, and Seth's attacker was swept backward, bellowing with rage. The man's companions laughed at the sight before turning on Seth and the boy again. We're in for it now, Seth thought.

  Then a whistle blew sharply and Seth heard shouts and the sound of running feet, and the three men took off.

  Still dazed, he watched soldiers rushing up; saw Sarge swiftly swinging toward him on crutches, the girl by his side.

  Sarge spoke to the white boy first "You hurt bad?"

  "Just bruises, I think," the boy answered, struggling to his feet.

  "You?" Sarge asked Seth.

  "I'm all right. Just got kicked some."

  "Sarge, you want us to go after those three?" another soldier asked.

  "No, not our job," Sarge answered. "Miss, can we walk you somewhere?"

  "No, thank you," the girl replied. "Thank you for coming so quickly." She turned to Seth. "Thank you."

  "We'll be going then," Sarge told her. "Brown, get back to camp. Your time off just ended."

  Wallace

  August 15, Afternoon

  Mrs. Marston pursed her lips and wondered what to say to Lizbeth, showing up on the doorstep with this young man who'd clearly been fighting. Surely this wasn't the beau Lizbeth had been so eager to see, waiting in the park for hours yesterday in case he came. Mrs. Marston had sat with her, for appearance's sake.

  But, yes, Lizbeth was introducing him. "Mrs. Marston, I'd like you to meet Jarrett Logan."

  "Are you a ruffian?" Mrs. Marston asked him. Might as well get her position laid out Find out where matters stood and let him know her thinking on coarse behavior.

  "No, ma'am," he said, a smile beginning and then turning into a wince. A fresh line of blood broke out from a cut near his mouth.

  "For heaven's sake, Mrs. Marston," Lizbeth said, "Jarrett got jumped on by a whole gang of men that ought to be in jail, and if it weren't for some soldiers, he'd probably have wound up dead. I told him you'd help."

  "I didn't say I wouldn't But, Lizbeth,...you're all right?" Mrs. Marston hated asking as much as she knew Lizbeth hated being fussed over. But she did care for the girl so much ... more than she'd ever tell her. Too much softness ruined a girl quicker than anything, in her experience.

  "Yes, Mrs. Marston," Lizbeth said, giving her a quick hug, not seeming to mind that Mrs. Marston had no idea how to return it. "I am fine, truly. It's just Jarrett that's not. He needs cleaning up."

  "Then why aren't we in the kitchen heating water?" Mrs. Marston led the way, knowing the two would follow. She remembered all the times Mr. Marston had shown up with black eyes and bruises that needed tending. Good man that he was, he had been a brawler.

  Lizbeth, who had brought Mrs. Marston's sewing basket from the parlor, told Jarrett, "While you're washing, I'll sew your shirt where it's ripped."

  "No need," he said, looking embarrassed. "I can do it later."

  Probably thinks neither of us has ever seen a man's chest! Mrs. Marston thought.

  "Lizbeth, go wait in the front room," she ordered. "Jarrett, take that shirt off and hand it over. I sew a straighter seam than she does anyway."

  Wallace

  August 15, Afternoon

  Lizbeth couldn't believe how fast the next hours went. Mrs. Marston fed them lunch and urged cake and cookies on Jarrett, all the while saying she didn't know what the Forest Service was coming to, starving firefighters the way it did.

  Finally Lizbeth came right out and said, "I think he looks just fine."

  Jarrett, beet red under their scrutiny, looked as if he wanted to sink through the floor.

  "Well," Mrs. Marston said, "I just hope he has strength enough to see you home." She turned to him. "You are intending to see Lizbeth gets safely home?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "There's no need," Lizbeth protested. "It's too far for him to walk."

  "That's not a problem," Jarrett said. "Yes, Mrs. Marston, I'll see her home."

  "And you, Lizbeth," Mrs. Marston said, "you tell Celia to stop being a fool, staying in the woods, just asking to get the both of you burned up. You tell her your room's waiting. You can call it a visit and not owe a thing. And she won't have to cook either, since the Forest Service has taken all my boarders."

  "That's generous," Lizbeth told her.

  "You think she'll come?"

  "No."

  "You tell her there's no place worth dying for."

  Lizbeth didn't want to argue, so she kept silent.

  "You don't agree?"

  "I guess it depends on the place," Lizbeth finally answered. "I don't want anybody to die, not us and not any of the firefighters..." She shot Jarrett a quick look. "But maybe some places are worth taking risks for."

  Mrs. Marston humphed, her breath exploding out her nose. "'Risks!' If you plan to live to my age, you better think that out again, young lady. Now, you get on so you're home before Celia gets worried."

  They left the boardinghouse on foot, leading Trenton. Once they reached the woods, though, and started up the Placer Creek trail, Jarrett got on the horse and put out an arm to swing Lizbeth up behind him.

  She knew, even as the miles went by, that they were on a journey she'd remember. She'd never even been close to a boy, and now she rode with her hands on Jarrett's waist, or her arms around him when the trail got steep and Trenton broke into a choppy quickstep.

  Sometimes they rode quietly. Sometimes they talked.

  Once, going through an especially pretty part of the woods, Lizbeth burst out, "I do love it here, all the trees and the mountains, and how there are animals to watch and birds always singing. You know our canary, Billie? Sometimes he sings so hard trying to answer all the wild birds that he goes hoarse!"

  "My favorite thing," Jarrett said, "is in
the winter, how pretty the magpies look with their dark feathers, flying against the snow."

  "The jays are like that, and I get tickled at how they're always fussing," Lizbeth said. "Sometimes they remind me of Celia and me, squabbling whether there's reason or not."

  "You two still aren't agreeing on much?"

  "Hardly! At least not about what to do with our place. If something doesn't knock sense into Celia, by this time next year she'll have me stuck in some East Coast front room learning embroidery."

  "I hope that doesn't happen," Jarrett said. And then, in a lighter tone, he added, "Though Mrs. Marston did seem to think your sewing could use improving."

  "As if your fighting skills couldn't!"

  They laughed comfortably. She was glad to learn Jarrett could take teasing as well as give it.

  ***

  The long ride ended way too quickly, with them getting to the homestead just as Celia was putting supper together. "You'll stay and eat?" she asked Jarrett.

  "Thank you," he answered, "but I'd best start back if I want to get to Wallace before too late."

  "It will be going on toward the middle of the night anyway," Celia said. She hesitated, threw a quick glance at Lizbeth, and then said, "If you'd like, you can take a blanket out to the horse shelter and sleep there."

  "Thank you," Jarrett said again, "but I've got to report for work early in the morning." He frowned. "I hate leaving you two, though. Coming here, we passed fire crews going to the west fork or heading up the divide. Don't you think—?"

  Lizbeth interrupted him. "I'll tell Celia what Mis. Marston said, but we're not going to change our minds about staying. I think your fire fighting is important, however discouraging it seems to you right now, and I think what we're doing is just as important. To us anyway."

  She couldn't tell if he agreed, but at least he didn't say she was being foolish. She liked that about him, that he gave her credit for being able to think for herself.

  "Jarrett, if you are really returning to Wallace tonight, you better get going," Celia said. "By the way, though ... have you heard any news of your brother?"

  "Just that he's been hurrying from one job to another," Jarrett told her. "I don't expect to see him soon, but if I do I'll say you asked after him."

  ***

  Lizbeth walked Jarrett to the edge of the clearing. "I think Celia could be sweet on your brother, if they got to know each other," she said. "But I guess that won't happen until the fire danger is over."

  "I guess not," Jarrett said. "A lot's waiting on that."

  "Do you think the fires will get much worse?"

  "They could. Everyone says the next week will tell."

  Lizbeth felt a quiver of uneasiness. "I wish you didn't have to go back on the fireline. I'm afraid for you."

  "I'll be all right," Jarrett said. "I survived both today's fight and your landlady, didn't I? Anyway, you're the one I worry about. I wish you and your aunt would do like Mrs. Marston said."

  Lizbeth didn't answer. So he doesn't believe we're doing right, staying on to protect what we can. She wished she herself felt as sure as she was trying to sound.

  She'd thought he might kiss her good-bye—a little kiss anyway. That was something else she'd never done, been kissed. But he didn't.

  They parted with a hand squeeze and troubled disagreement between them.

  Homestead off Placer Creek

  August 15, Evening

  "What was that about Mrs. Marston?" Celia asked as soon as Lizbeth returned to the cabin.

  "She thinks we're fools to stay here and risk being burned up."

  "And I suppose she put it just that way?" Celia laughed, expecting that her niece would laugh with her. Celia never ceased to be amazed at the way their landlady spoke her mind. It amused and shocked her and sometimes made her envious. What would it be like to be so certain of things?

  Lizbeth said, "Ought we to consider it, Cel? Mrs. Marston invited us to be her guests—no rent, and you wouldn't have to cook for boarders."

  Her niece's unexpected question disquieted Celia. She felt herself being pushed into a corner. First Samuel Logan and now Mrs. Marston was demanding she surrender the plan she'd clung to these past years. And leaving would be the same as admitting defeat, whether fire swept through the place or not. Stung that Lizbeth didn't understand, Celia demanded, "And you, too? Do you think we ought to give up?"

  "Not give up, Cel," Lizbeth answered. "Just not confuse wanting to keep our place with wanting to stay alive."

  "You're being melodramatic."

  "No. I'm just wondering what makes you so sure you know better than everyone else what we should do. Are you just too proud to admit you're wrong?"

  "That's enough, Lizbeth," Celia said, her voice sharp. "You go stay in town if you wish. I don't need you here anyway, and I'd just as soon you be safe."

  "Don't be silly," Lizbeth said. "I'm not going without you." She pulled on her work apron. "I'll put the animals away for the night."

  "You haven't eaten supper," Celia said.

  "I'm not hungry." Lizbeth headed out the door. "But maybe Mrs. Marston is right about us being fools."

  ***

  Celia put the uneaten meal away. She hadn't been hungry either.

  Why does what I say so often come out sounding different from what I mean?

  Of course she wanted her niece safe in town, but Lizbeth would never go, not after the way Celia had put it.

  And why can't I admit I'm not sure at all about what we should do?

  She wished she had some way to bring Tom Whitcomb back to life long enough to end things properly with him. It wasn't right, how he'd left her with this place and his ideas to carry out. It was like he'd left her with a test she had to pass over and over, with every decision she made.

  Celia knew it was a foolish test, but what would it say about her if she abandoned it? That she'd been fool enough to marry a man who didn't know how to provide for her?

  She grimaced, thinking back on the one time she'd tried to explain that to Lizbeth.

  "So provide for yourself," Lizbeth had said. "Or let me. We're not hothouse flowers needing to be taken care of."

  "You wouldn't know a hothouse flower if you saw one," Celia had retorted. "I doubt there's a hothouse in all Idaho."

  As though that had anything to do with the price of apples, Celia thought, remembering. But at least the comment had been so ridiculous it had set them both laughing.

  She took out her small stack of magazines and began searching for a picture that might make a good watercolor. Lately she'd been less and less interested in drawings of women playing croquet on clipped lawns, and tonight she could hardly even stand to look at them. Impatient, she put the magazines down and stepped to the door to see if Lizbeth needed a hand.

  Her niece signaled that she was almost done with the chores, and Celia started to go back inside. And then she halted, distracted by a whiff of pine coming through the pervading smell of smoke. It made her think of Samuel Logan's scrapbooks. Maybe he didn't know as much about drawing as she did, but he certainly cared more about his subjects. It showed in every line of his work.

  Since seeing his drawings, Celia had started to observe more closely the woods she lived in. She'd found that her trees took on a whole different look when she studied how they were made instead of calculating only their value as cut timber.

  Abruptly, Lizbeth's question came back to her Are you just too proud to admit you're wrong? Not too proud, Celia thought. Too scared.

  Wallace

  August 15, Night

  Seth got twenty-four hours' sentry duty, not for fighting but for losing. "Teach you to pick your battles," Sarge said, "and to know when you're gonna need help. Get your rifle."

  "But that ain't right," Seth said. "That boy was getting beat up, and..."

  "And you with him. You should'a known two can't fight three."

  I expected it to be even, Abel pitching in with me, Seth thought, but he didn't say it. There
had to be a good reason for Abel not backing him up.

  Anyway, even without Abel, Seth's uniform should have counted for something. That's what Seth's father used to say. Most people respect a uniform, even if they don't like the person in it.

  Seth swallowed down bile, not knowing who he was angriest at, Sarge or those men—or his father, for promising the army would be different from what it was. He got his weapon and reported back.

  Sarge glanced at his pocket watch and said, "You're on in ten," and returned to a stack of papers he was going through.

  Seth waited, the unjustness of the whole thing gnawing at his insides, until finally he blurted out, "How come you don't go after others like this?"

  "Like Abel?" Sarge said without looking up from what he was reading. "I've seen lots like him. Good-enough soldiers as long as it suits them to be. I want men I can count on."

  "I don't understand," Seth said.

  "Abel's not worth my trouble. You are." Sarge glanced down at his ankle, his face expressionless. "Now, you go on."

  ***

  Seth began the first of the dozens of times he was supposed to walk the camp's perimeter, eyes roving while his face and body pointed straight ahead. When he got around to the darkest side, Abel slipped up next to him. It was the first time since the fight that Seth had seen him.

  "Where were you?" Seth demanded. "I almost got pounded into nothing."

  "I ran for help," Abel said. "That was just good sense. Only, that girl beat me to it."

  "You could have told Sarge how it was."

  "And done what good, besides maybe get us both guard duty? Buddy, I'll make it up to you."

  "I don't need you making up nothing."

  They were approaching a lighted comer, and Abel stepped back into shadows. "Catch you next round," he said.

  ***

  When Seth returned to the dark stretch, Abel rejoined him. "It's not me you ought to be mad at," he said. "It's the army. Once you and me are on the outside, we won't have to put up with none of this."