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Halfway to the canyon bottom, maybe three-quarters of a mile from spike camp, Anna and Lindstrom found the fireline, a six-foot-wide trail rudely scratched into the landscape. On either side trees had been clear-cut and thrown back. Duff and scrub had been scraped away by pulaskis, the double-duty tool with an axe on one side and sharp hoelike blade on the other that most firefighters carried.

To the left, Joseph Hayhurst, his squat frame and strong back suited to the work, was swamping for a sawyer Anna recognized but didn't know by name. As trees fell and were bucked up into manageable chunks, Joseph dragged the pieces clear of the line. Anna recognized the Apache by his hair and stature. Both men were faceless behind handkerchiefs tied bandit-style over the lower half of their faces in an attempt to screen out dust and soot. Surgical-style painters' masks were far more effective filters, but every culture bows to fashion. Firefighters would no sooner trade their bandannas in for white conical masks than Texans would trade their Stetsons for parasols.

"Joseph!" Anna called when the chainsaw gave them a moment's peace. He pointed farther up the line and Anna and Lindstrom headed north toward the head of the canyon. After the slide and scramble down the hill the "improved" surface was like a stroll in the park. Long after grasses flourished and trees returned the cut would mar the hillside, growing more rutted, wider, as rain and snow runoff took the easier course they now followed.

Dust and smoke were held close by the trees and the air in the ravine was stifling. Rivulets of sweat tickled between Anna's breasts and shoulder blades. Salt drops burned her eyes and puddled at her temples—wading pools for the deer flies.

"Wait up," she told Stephen.

Obediently he stopped while she pulled off her stiff leather gloves and mopped beneath the band of her hard hat.

"Our nose getting a wee bit shiny?" he asked.

"Fuck you," Anna said amiably.

Radio traffic interrupted with another bulletin on the cold front forecasting high winds.

"I wish it'd get here," Stephen said as Anna screwed her hard hat back on. "We could use a break."

"High winds. LeFleur'll be pulling the squad out."

Howard Black Elk, a pulaski held loosely in his downhill hand, walked down the line toward them. "We're bumping back up to spike," he said. "I'm passing the word. Everybody's bumping up. John doesn't like the forecast. John, Jennifer and Lenny Nims are waiting with Newt. He's a hurting unit. Soon as I get word out about the bump, I'll grab somebody and come back, help with the carry-out."

"Thanks," Anna said. "Hamlin's big."

"Damn big. Not far." Howard raised a massive arm and pointed north. "Just outta sight, maybe two hundred yards." He squeezed onto the uphill side of the line to let Stephen and Anna pass.

Hard hats and gloves off, Jennifer and John knelt on either side of Newt Hamlin. Leonard Nims stood up the line leaning on a shovel, looking like he couldn't decide whether to stay or go. Hamlin, a beefy, square-headed boy, maybe nineteen or twenty, sat rigid, his face white and his lips pinched into a thin line. The muscles in his broad jaw worked constantly. Grinding his teeth, Anna noted. Probably to keep himself from crying. Tears made his eyes glitter but not one fell.

The boy's right knee was bent backward, the lower leg pushing up at about a twenty-degree angle from anatomical position. Short or LeFleur had immobilized it, splinting from hip to ankle joint with branches trimmed for the purpose.

Anna dropped to one knee. Hamlin's boot was unlaced. Evidently the pain of removing it had been so intense, leaving it in place had been deemed the lesser of evils. She reached as far into the boot as she could.

"So what happened?" Lindstrom asked as he began unslinging the litter.

"Len was cutting. Newt swamping. Got downhill of a fall. A log rolled and nailed him," John said.

By the careful neutrality of the crew boss's voice, Anna