The chart and his own first-hand knowledge of the mountainside told him that the fire was sweeping down north of Toll-Gate Creek toward the heavily timbered ridge beyond.
Heedless of the presence or absence of the tourists, he snatched the telescope and climbed the rock where he could view the slope where the girl had been.

The smoke was rolling now over the manzanita slope, and he could not pierce its murkiness.

He knew that the slope was not yet afire, but the wind was bearing the flames that way, and the manzanita would burn with a zipping rush once it started.

He knew.

He had stood up there and watched the flames sweep over patches of the shrub.
He rushed back into the station, seized the telephone and called again the main office.
"For the Lord sake, hustle up here and do something!" he shouted aggressively.