The Sky Fisherman (23 page)

"Central is in on this, too," Jake said. "We've got to hold that fire or the whole country burns up. Look at those goddamn fuel tanks."

We unhitched the boat and trailer at the store, leaving them in the mam parking lot, because Jake didn't want to mess with the padlocked gate on the boat storage lot. "Drive across the street and fill up at the Union," he said, dashing into the store.

The kid pumping gas kept a wary eye on the hilltop fire. "My dad's up there fighting fire. He's a millwright at the plant." He pulled the nozzle out and returned it to the pump. "Told me to stay put. What if those tanks blow?" The kid looked at me for some kind of assurance, but I didn't have any.

Jake came running across the street carrying two big fire extinguishers. A short-handled shovel was tucked under one arm, and a pair of brand-new Wolverine boots hung from his neck by their laces. After tossing the gear into the back of the pickup, Jake handed me the boots. "Get those tennis shoes off and put these on. They're tough as hell and should keep your feet from getting scorched."

I saw they were just like Jake's but his were well broken in.

The siren continued blowing, but the town seemed empty except for the crummies and pickups filled with grim-faced men headed toward the fire.

Jake drove to the dry grass fields fringing the hill. A coach had his Little League baseball team fanned out checking for spot fires. Instead of bats, the players carried shovels. A few swung wildly at the burning cinders drifting on the wind.

My uncle stopped the truck and called to the coach. "What's the score, Pete?"

The man called back. "Where the hell you been? Off fishing?"

Jake pointed to the fuel tanks. "If the fire reaches those tanks, get these kids the hell out."

Pete gave him the thumbs-up sign.

"This is one the home team better win," Jake said.

The police had roadblocked the hill but allowed the firefighters through. "How long's this bastard been going?" Jake asked the cop at the block.

The cop checked his watch. "We got the first call two hours ago. Things were already bad. Fire really got a jump."

"Wonder why the sprinkler systems didn't slow it," Jake said.

The cop spit some tobacco on the ground. "Maybe my brother-in-law installed the fucking system."

The stud mill was completely enveloped in flames, and the fire had swept across the electrical plant that housed the generators, then burned on through to the lay up section where they actually made the plywood. Big enough to create its own wind, the fire roared like a train approaching a tunnel. The smell of burning plywood mixed with the rubbery stench from the belts and conduits, the singed hot metal scent of the burning saws. Thick black smoke poured out of the generator plant.

Men from six fire engines—tankers and pumpers—battled the blaze, but the mill was lost. The heat was so intense, half the water streaming from the fire hoses evaporated before it reached the fire. The hoses were manned by a mix of professional firefighters from Central and the volunteers from Gateway, Pinedale, Bridgeport. I recognized Sniffy hanging on to one two-and-a-half-inch hose.

Fiery embers carried by the wind rained on the roof of the Feed and Seed Co-op building. A few men had climbed on top of the building, dragging small hoses from the grass-fire trucks. More embers fell on the historic railroad depot, and a small pumper truck from Bridgeport had been deployed to soak the roof.

When Jake saw Sheriff Grady Simmons waving at us he stopped, and Grady thrust his head in the window. "Emergency vehicles only, Jake. Park that rig and help out on the hoses."

"You ramrodding this outfit?" Jake asked.

Grady touched his badge. "I'm in charge of emergency services."

"Then I hope there's no emergency," Jake said.

"Well, you're not the big shot," Grady said. "Some of us have been here two hours already."

"Then you should have enough sense to be soaking that cold deck," Jake said. "Pull those pumpers. The mill's a complete loss anyway."

Grady grinned, but it wasn't friendly. "Mule Mullins runs the fire crews. Speak to him."

"I haven't seen him," Jake said.

Grady swept his arm to indicate the burning buildings and fire. "You're the hotshot guide. Go find him."

Jake turned to me. "You know what I said—how a fool's born a minute and only one dies a day?"

I nodded.

He jerked his thumb at Grady. "When this sucker goes, that'll square things for a month."

Jake did find Mullins after a few minutes' search and told him about the cold deck. Mullins nodded. "The reservation's sending a couple trucks. I'll put them on it soon as they get here."

"I'd do it now if I were you," Jake said. "Pull that crew off the depot."

"Everybody's a chief," Mullins said. "Tangent keeps yelling to save his plant. The mayor says save the historic railroad depot at all costs. Thinks it'll bring in tourists after it's renovated."

"Bunch of jugheads," Jake said.

"Why don't you park it and help out for now," Mullins said. "We
could use your know-how and some of these boys are pretty tired. Park over by the co-op."

Jake started driving toward the co-op, away from the fire, when he noticed a small fire starting in a wheat field beyond the building. No one was on it.

The orange flames burned close to the ground, but the wind was spreading the fire rapidly. Beyond the wheat field stood a line of small houses similar to the one Mom and I lived in. "Hang on," Jake said as he threw the pickup into four-wheel drive and headed into the field.

Ripening heads of wheat brushed the doors as we headed for the burning. Jake hunched over the steering wheel. "Two more weeks, this wheat would be so ripe you'd never get out the fire."

When we hit the burning section, Jake began driving back and forth, grinding the blazing wheat into the earth. The fire had spread and flames licked at the rocker panels and fenders. After making several swaths through the fire section, Jake started taking long turns in front of the fire, clearing a kind of fire line by turning the ripening wheat under the wheels.

On one turnaround in the soft dirt, the pickup slowed and the engine died. Jake tried starting it twice. A terrible look came over his face, not fear or anger, but disappointment, as if a good friend had let him down.

"Get one of the extinguishers out of the back," he said. "Leave the door half open and use it for a shield."

I scrambled for the extinguisher and did as he said. Crouched behind the door, I waited, measuring the distance as the fire closed. Two pheasants burst out of the flames and ran past us.

"It's getting hot," I said.

"Turn up the air conditioner if you want," Jake said. "I'm just waiting a minute. Don't want to flood it. Then she'd really blow."

When the flames were six feet away, I started spraying their base, making long sweeps back and forth, but I couldn't soak all the standing wheat, and tongues of fire licked at the door. The heat smacked against my forehead and I took shallow breaths.

"If she doesn't start, we'll bail out my side," Jake said. "Head straight for those houses. It's only fifty yards, but run like hell."

"We'll stop this son of a bitch," I said. My heart was thumping, and I kicked away some burning wheat around my legs.

Pressing the gas pedal to the floor, Jake held it a second to clear the carburetor. Then he tried the starter again. "Go, you sumbitch, go!" The engine roared. "Climb in, buddy!" He grinned at me as we were on the
move again. "Remind me to kick the guy's ass that gave this rig the last tune-up."

Driving back and forth, back and forth, through the wheat ahead of the fire, Jake was relentless. After he'd ground a wide fire line, he took the pickup into the fire itself. The smell of scorched paint told me he'd need a new paint job, and I understood why he'd filled up with gas at the Union station—to avoid explosive fumes in a nearly empty tank. After twenty minutes, no flames were left, although the patches of blackened wheat smoldered and smoked. The field resembled a mangy dog's coat.

"Time to break in your new boots," he announced. Carrying fire extinguishers and shovels, we walked into the field, then sprayed and shoveled the hot spots. After they all seemed out, Jake stopped to piss on one of the smoldering places. "Make it count," he said.

He squinted at my new boots, now blackened with ash, dirt, and burned wheat. "Good thing you left your tennis shoes in the rig. When I was driving ambulance, I saw burn victims with their tennis shoes melted to the flesh. As the doctors cut away their shoes at the hospital, half the feet came, too."

We flung the shovels and fire extinguishers into the back and Jake dropped the tailgate. He fished a couple of Pepsis from the big Igloo cooler. "Let's take five."

As we drank, I watched the people across the field—the ones from the small row of houses. No men were visible and I figured they were fighting the mill fire. Several younger kids stood on ladders or the tops of cars, spraying their roofs with garden hoses. A woman in a housedress and apron kept banging out a back screen door and slopping pans of water onto her wooden porch. Her hair plastered to her forehead, and she stopped a moment, leaning in our direction and staring toward us or the fire behind. Backlit as we were, I didn't believe she could see anything but our silhouettes. After banging inside once again, she returned with a large pan, which she flung violently in our direction.

"She doesn't have to thank us or anything," I said.

"That's not it," Jake said, twisting around so he faced the burning plant. "Take a hard look. Dumb sonsabitches let that cold deck get started."

Fifty yards of the stacked-log cold deck burned furiously, sending orange and yellow flames leaping into the night sky. Sections of flaming bark broke away from the blazing logs, shooting baseball-size embers in all directions. As we drove closer, the heat intensified.

Jake kept clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Hope I remembered to pay my fire insurance. I know they piled those logs too close to the fuel tanks."

With the intense heat, the tanks expanded and sighed, groaning like goblins. "If one of those blows," Jake said, "you can wave bye-bye to Gateway."

The nearest tank, decorated with a big Shell scallop, shimmered and undulated. At first I thought it was an illusion, but Jake said the swelling was real.

Downhill from the storage tanks, emergency vehicles were evacuating the Rimrock Trailer Court. Occupants frantically threw their possessions into cars, pickups, makeshift wagons, while the voice from a loudspeaker urged them to move faster. I scanned the grassy fields for the baseball team, but they were gone.

Mullins had pulled back the pumpers from the mill fire. Now the firemen concentrated streams of water on the fuel tanks nearest the cold-deck inferno. Some firefighters held corrugated tin sheets as shields to reflect the heat while others manned the hoses, attempting to cool the fuel inside so it wouldn't explode. From time to time the men anxiously glanced over their shoulders, watching the advancing fire eat its way along the cold deck.

Billyum and half a dozen other Indians had shown up in reservation police cars. Red-faced, Mullins screamed at Billyum about the lack of reservation fire trucks, but the big man just turned away.

Spotting Jake, Mullins hurried over. "I need more fucking trucks. Can't talk to him." He waved both arms at the burning mill. "Son of a bitch is a complete loss. The idiots kept five hundred gallons of fucking gasoline in there to clean their tools. The explosion blew out the wall and torched the cold deck." He held his arms up like a man under arrest, then let them drop. "I don't know if we can save the town. We need more trucks." Taking off his helmet, he slapped it against his thigh.

"Go call Central again," Jake said. "Beg. And put your damn helmet on."

Mullins headed toward one of the fire trucks.

"You told him," I said after Mullins was out of earshot.

"He's doing the best he can," Jake said, calmer than I would have expected. "Mullins is in way too deep. As a volunteer you practice putting out garage fires, grass fires in vacant lots, or maybe some widow's tumbledown eyesore after she drops. Nobody's ready for something like this." Jake studied the disaster a moment. "The damn mill's sprinkler system should have controlled it."

"A lot of equipment and volunteers showed up," I said.

He nodded. "Beats whacking it out with feed sacks."

Billyum and the other Indians were staring at the fuel tanks. "Paint's blistering," Billyum said as we approached. "I'd say you city boys have a big problem."

"Did you forget where you parked the fire trucks?" Jake asked. "Drop the keys somewhere?"

Billyum shrugged. "Our boys are fighting fires way back in the woods. Got to protect our timber. Mullins must have got the message screwed up."

"He should have put the other trucks on it," Jake said. "Blood under the bridge now."

We all watched the fuel tanks for a few moments. Then Jake said, "I figure two things got to happen. Keep those tanks from blowing and put out that cold deck."

Billyum squinted at him. "Can't stop a cold deck, Jake. You better just clear the town."

Jake put his hand on Billyum's shoulder. "Don't go thinking negatory thoughts on me."

Billyum pointed downhill. "Trailer park's evacuated. Now they're evacuating this side of town. I'm taking my men down, see if we can help."

Mullins returned. "I've called Central and Pinedale. Begged for more trucks. We'll have real help in an hour." He glared at Billyum.

"You were smart to keep those tanks cool," Jake said. "But they're still heating and the cold deck's burning closer." He pointed to the blistering scallop on the Shell tank.

"I can pull the pumper off the depot," Mullins said. "What good's a depot if you got no town."

Jake shook his head. "Too much of the water is evaporating, and it's getting worse as that fire burns closer. We need hoses on top of the tanks. Open the nozzles wide and flood those suckers with cold water."

"I can't send anyone up on those tanks," Mullins said. "My guys are just volunteers. Most have families."