Kincaid had just been relieved again, had come down off the ties to the packed earth of the right-of-way. His arms and legs ached from the strain. Fatigue made him light-headed. They were all near exhaustion. Ahead, people were staggering, swaying drunkenly. Now and then one of them would fall, have to be helped back up. Men supported and half dragged wives and older children, carried the younger kids. Silent, all of them - no cries, not even audible whimpers from the youngsters.

  How far had they come? Had to be nearly a mile, which meant it was no more than thirty minutes since they'd left the wrecked train. It seemed to Kincaid they had been running for hours; his sense of time was distorted. But the fire hadn't reached the explosives yet - any minute now but not yet - and he judged they were out of immediate danger from the blast. Still, he knew that when the dynamite and black powder did blow, the force of the explosion would hurl burning bits of wood and metal a long way. New blazes would start behind them, on either side. They wouldn't even be near safety until they reached the logging road, and then their survival would depend on where the fire fighters from Spring-wood and neighboring farms and ranches were situated; on how fast the fire spread after the explosion; on how much strength each of them had left…

  Above a series of sawtooth ridges to the east, the sky was stained a deepening ruby color hazed by smoke. The grayness overhead and to the west was tinted with faded blue, but down here the light was uncertain, made murky by tree shadows.

  Kincaid dragged an arm across his sweating face, squinted past the ragged line of people. He could make out a downward left-hand turn far ahead; where they were now, the tracks ran in a mostly straight line. He tried to recollect just where the logging road crossed the right-of-way, couldn't seem to visualize it or the terrain near it. No particular landmarks in this area. Just unrelieved wilderness crowding in on both sides.

  He gave his attention to Rose. She was still trotting along behind the two men who were carrying Denbow; had been there the whole time, hovering like a wraith. I've got to stay with him, Matt. Meaning now, here, until this ordeal was over? Or telling him that she had made her decision, that her husband was the one she'd chosen?

  The other carry teams were starting to falter; the five-minute rest period was almost up. Kincaid ran ahead, joined Ashmead this time in carrying the inert body of Sam Honeycutt. The old man's face was gray, waxy; he looked dead. But his chest moved faintly and breath rattled in his throat. The bandaged wound in his shoulder was soaked with fresh blood.

  He's not going to make it, Kincaid thought.

  Then he thought: Hold on, just hold on! Talking mutely to Honeycutt, and to himself and the others, too.

  More long minutes passed. Carry. Rest. Carry. Still no explosion.

  Into the downward curve, out of it into another straight, and the same unbroken green and brown stretching out on both sides.

  Still no explosion.

  The logging road couldn't be far ahead now. If they could just get to that road before the fire reached the wrecked train…

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Rudabaugh rounded another turn in the tracks, still pounding down the center of the ties. His breath came in ragged gasps. He'd stumbled and fallen a couple of times, lost the Starr.44 once and had to waste seconds retrieving it. But for all of that, he'd managed so far to maintain a steady pace for what must have been almost a mile.

  Through a film of sweat he saw that the tracks ahead were still empty. The people from Big Tree must have had a big jump on him; he was moving faster than they'd be able to with the women and kids. He wasn't sure what he'd do if he did catch up to them. Hang back and follow them to the fire lines or into Springwood - and risk being spotted or caught by the fire when the explosives finally blew? Go off into the woods, try to follow along out of sight - and risk getting himself lost?

  He just didn't know. He couldn't think straight, with the pain all through him and the blood thudding wildly in his head. A ranch… all he had to do was find a ranch… there'd be horses, a road, a way out of this trap…

  He'd been trapped before, like that time in Emporia, Kansas, when he and the Donegan brothers had gotten themselves boxed into the livery stable after holding up the Cattleman's Bank. Thought he was a goner that day but they'd gotten out of it. Set a fire to get out of that trap, only this time the fire was the trap…

  He staggered into another curve, halfway out of it. He could feel himself slowing down, starting to wobble; his legs were full of sharp, stinging needles. He had to rest for a few seconds. If he didn't, he knew he would collapse.

  Gasping, he pulled up and bent over at the waist and sucked air through his open mouth. After a minute some of the tightness in his chest eased. He forced himself to move again, but he was no longer running - only lurching forward in a loose-gaited trot, like a spavined horse.

  Got to be a ranch, got to be a road, got to be a way out-

  And the dynamite and black powder blew.

  Even though he'd been waiting for it, the sudden booming blast threw him off-stride. The ties under his feet seemed to ripple from the concussion; the shadowy morning turned match-flame bright. There were more explosions, a short chain of them, like mortar shells falling on a target. Rudabaugh regained his balance, lurched around.

  The sky behind him was raining fire.

  ***

  Seconds before the explosion, Rose saw the logging road appear ahead of them.

  They were just coming through a long bend, and one of the men at the front let out a weak shout. She lifted her head, saw people pointing, heard them calling out, and when she'd run a little farther, there it was, less than a hundred yards away - a rutted brown line that bisected a shallow clearing to the east, climbed across the right-of-way, and vanished into the trees to the west.

  The road was empty as far as she could see, but that didn't mean fire fighters weren't somewhere close by. Even if help was a long way off, the road meant safety. She'd been afraid her legs would give out before they reached it, but now, seeing it so close, she knew she had enough strength left to-

  The explosion was so sudden and so loud that she threw her hands up to her ears convulsively, to shut out the thunderous noise. All along the tracks people were slowing, turning as she did to look to the north. Black smoke and swirling flame blanketed the sky above the treetops. More smoke and pellets of fire hurtled toward them, out away from them on both sides, as a series of lesser eruptions began.

  None of the falling fire reached them, just wispy vanguards of smoke. But burning debris landed on trees no more than a quarter of a mile distant, set them instantly ablaze. Fire raced through the dry top branches, sending up cascades of sparks and cinders. The air turned hot and foul. Rose coughed, then retched.

  Someone grabbed her, kept her on her feet. Matt. She sagged against him, let him half carry her onward because her legs simply did not want to work anymore. Her mind was jumbled. She couldn't get enough air into her lungs, could barely see for the sweat streaming into her eyes.

  She had a dim awareness of the others running, veering off the right-of-way toward the logging road on the west. The explosions had stopped; she heard only the humming crackle of the fire.

  Then they were on the logging road, stumbling down it past a fork, with nothing ahead of them but emptiness…

  ***

  As soon as Rudabaugh saw the firebrands raining down behind him, he forgot all about the pain and broke into a hard run. He ran with his head down and his neck muscles bunched, telling himself the fire wouldn't reach this far, half expecting one of the brands to drop down on him. He could hear the muffled whoosh of tree branches igniting. But he didn't look back; he didn't want to know how close the blaze was.

  Choking gray-black smoke eddied around him, clogged his nostrils, burned in his throat. He ran blind for more seconds or minutes. Tripped on a warped tie as he came out ahead of the curling tendrils and sprawled out over one of the rails. Hauled himself upright, plunged through another turn and into the next straight stretch.

  He didn't see the road until he was within fifty yards of it. When he did see it, through a blur of sweat, he slowed into a weaving, splayfooted gait. Take the road? But which way? If he took the wrong direction, he might trap himself for fair. Which way was Springwood?

  He kept on going, trying to make a decision. But his brain wouldn't respond. The roar of the fire, his tortured breathing, his boots thudding against wood and earth, the pound of blood in his ears… together they created such a rage of sound that he could no longer think-

  There was a man ahead of him.

  All at once he was seeing a man run out from the road and up onto the tracks.

  He pawed at his eyes, blinking: the man was still there, waving frantically at him, running now in his direction. The hammering in his ears diminished; all his senses came rushing back. He slowed to a walk, then came to a stop. Stood there swaying, sucking air. Inside him was a thin wild laughter.

  Not one of the Big Tree people - a fire fighter. And the way out of the trap.

  By the time the fire fighter got to him, his mind was working again and he had command of himself. Kid about twenty, with a farmboy look. The kid could tell from the way Rudabaugh was clutching his right arm that he was hurt, so he reached out to take hold of his left arm and steady him. Rudabaugh let the kid do it. He didn't want hands on him, not with the butt of the.44 out where the kid could see it, but he was still too weak to fend him off.

  The kid said, "Lordy," in a hushed voice. He was looking at Rudabaugh's face. Then he said, "Take it easy, mister, we'll have you out of here pretty quick."

  Rudabaugh cast a look to the north. Smoke curled along the tracks, between the walls of trees. He could see flames leaping skyward above the gray pall, but none of them was an immediate threat.

  The kid said, "Anybody else with you?"

  The stabbing pain in Rudabaugh's lungs had lessened; his breathing had slowed enough so that he could talk. "No," he managed hoarsely, "just me."

  The kid hurriedly led him down off the right-of-way to the west, onto the logging road. His legs were shaky, full of shooting pains, but he could still walk all right.

  "What were those explosions?" the kid asked. "Sounded like a war goin' on."

  "Don't know. Listen, where you taking me?"

  "Not far. Another road that forks off this one."

  "What's there? More fire fighters?"

  "Just my pa. We come out to scout the fire, see if we could find out about those explosions. Rest of the men are back a half mile."

  "Anybody with your pa?"

  "No."

  "How'd you come? Horseback?"

  "Well, sure not on foot. Pa's holdin' the horses. Don't worry, we'll get you clear."

  Rudabaugh wasn't worrying, now that he knew there were horses close by. He said, "How far is Springwood?"

  "Couple of miles."

  "Along which fork?"

  "South one's the fastest way," the kid said. "We got a doc and some volunteer nurses waitin'."

  "I don't need a doc."

  "You need one, mister."

  They were into the woods now. Thin wisps of smoke undulated through the trees around them. More smoke drifted overhead, shutting out part of the morning sky. The thrumming of the blaze seemed farther away now, muffled some by the densely grown timber.

  Shortly they reached the fork where a second logging road branched off to the south. An older version of the kid stood off on the south fork, holding a pair of saddle horses - well-trained animals that weren't nearly as skittish as most would have been this near a forest fire.

  The older man called something that Rudabaugh didn't listen to. He yanked out of the kid's grasp, stepped back, and dragged the.44 out of his belt with his left hand. The two fire fighters froze in their tracks. Stood staring at him and the revolver, wide-eyed.

  "What in hell?" the older one said.

  "Don't give me cause, you won't get shot."

  "What's the idea throwin' down on us?"

  "Shut up. When I come over there, you hand me both reins and then move over next to your son. Don't do anything else or I'll kill you both. Hear?"

  The farmer heard and didn't give him any argument. Rudabaugh went over to him and the horses, shifting the.44 to his right hand - he would have had trouble firing it with that hand but they didn't know that - and took hold of both sets of reins with his left. Both animals moved nervously at his unfamiliar nearness, but he knew horses, knew how to handle them. He talked soft to them while the farmer went over to stand beside his son; that kept them from pulling free, bolting.

  The leaner, faster-looking, and least skittish of the two was a long-necked clay bank. Rudabaugh slid the.44 back inside his Levi's, let go of the other horse's reins, and slapped its rump to send it running away along the west fork. Then he swung himself into the saddle, reined the clay bank around to the south.

  Neither of the farmers had moved. But the kid shouted, "You got no damn place to go, mister. By Christ, no damn place to go on that horse!"

  "Save your breath for running," Rudabaugh said. He sleeved sweat out of his eyes, kicked the claybank into a fast trot down the south fork. When he glanced over his shoulder, he saw the two fire fighters racing after him. But then the horse took him around a bend and he couldn't see them anymore.

  At first he had to fight the claybank some to keep it from balking. Soon enough, though, he had it setting a surefooted pace between the ruts. Every jolt of its body sent white-hot pain through his shoulder. He set his teeth, half shut his eyes - enduring it.

  Minutes went by, he had no idea how many. Ahead, then, the trees thinned and he could see part of a long, wide meadow where dozens of bare-chested men were working feverishly. Digging firebreaks, he saw as he drew closer. Fifty or more, giving the meadow the look of a plowed field with their shovels. The road hooked through the middle of it, down into a distant valley where buildings squatted in clusters. Springwood. And beyond Spring-wood, roads that would take him out of these mountains and eventually back to San Francisco.

  He fought down the urge to dig his boot heels into the claybank's flanks, drive the horse at a hard run out of the woods and across the open meadow. But it would only call attention to him, invite pursuit. He held the horse down to a trot as the last of the trees slipped past and they emerged into pale smoky daylight.

  None of the men paid him much mind until he was a third of the way across the meadow. Then, over on the left, two of them straightened as he neared. One called suddenly, "Hey! Hey, you there!"

  Rudabaugh kept his eyes front, his left hand holding the reins in close to the butt of the.44.

  The same same voice shouted, "Hey! That's Ed Gorman's claybank! I'd know that horse anywheres."

  "What the hell, mister?" somebody else yelled. "Where's Ed? What're you doin' with his horse?"

  Rigid in the saddle, Rudabaugh realized the mistake he'd made in his fatigue and urgency - the meaning of the kid's last words back at the fork: "You got no damn place to go, mister. By Christ, no damn place to go on that horse." Savagely he drove his heels into the claybank's sides.

  But it was already too late.

  Three fire fighters surged out onto the road ahead, brandishing shovels. The claybank broke stride, reared sideways. Rudabaugh fought the reins, tried to bring the animal down and set him running again. The horse twisted violently enough to tear the ribbons from Rudabaugh's hand, then bucked and twisted again. And threw him.

  He came down rolling on clumps of turned sod, the burst of pain in his shoulder making him yell. He fetched up onto his knees, clawed at his belt. The.44 was gone. He saw it lying a couple of feet away; lunged for it, caught it up in his left hand, fired a quick shot - not trying to hit any of them, just trying to make them scatter so he could run to where several horses were picketed at the far end of the field.

  Knowing all the while he'd never make it.

  Knowing even before one shovel smashed against his wrist, another against the side of his head, that it was all over now - his luck had finally run out.

  ***

  Kincaid, his arm tight around Rose's shoulders, stumbled along the west fork of the road behind the others. The tops of the trees a few hundred yards back were obscured by great blooms of smoke. Off to the northwest, beyond where the spur tracks ran, colorless flames boiled across the nearest ridge.

  Rose was coughing in spasms that shook her body; his own breath wheezed and rattled in his throat. The smoke and the thickness of the woods cast deep hazy shadows over the road. It was like slogging through an evil dream, the kind in which you run and run and never get anywhere.

  People ahead were doubled over and weaving erratically; others fell, were helped up. There was panic in all of them again. Now it was driving them onward, but most of them were already at the limits of their endurance.

  The road made a sharp hook to the south; the pack leaders disappeared around it. Through burning eyes, Kincaid saw the ones behind the leaders slowing, starting to bunch up across the road. Then some of them turned, gestured with sudden animation at those behind. A weak shout went up.

  Kincaid dragged Rose into the turn. And then he, too, could see ahead, far ahead. To where the trees ended. To the open fields stretching away on three sides. To men and animals and wagons, and the buildings of Springwood shimmering to the south like images in a heat mirage.

  Rose saw, too. She began to cry without tears.

  And Kincaid thought with a sense of wonder: We made it.