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Father Nowicki looked up from his breviary at the sound of the church bell urgently pealing. The rectory door slammed open, and Stanley Mazurek burst into his office

“Father, there’s a brush fire along the river!” Mazurek shouted. “The wind’s pushing it this way. If we can’t stop those flames before they jump the Medina, the church will be set ablaze!”

The pastor tossed aside his prayer book and started for the door. Father Jankowski had also heard the bell, and hurried downstairs.

“What’s the commotion?” he asked.

“Fire!” Mazurek replied.

“Let’s go!” Jankowski urged.

Regina emerged from the kitchen.

“I heard Stanley. I’ll make coffee and sandwiches.”

“They’ll be appreciated,” Mazurek said.

He and the priests rushed outside.

The acrid odor of burning brush assailed their nostrils. Thin tendrils of smoke, pushed up the riverbank by a gusty wind, swirled around the church and rectory. Answering the summons of the bell, men and women hurried toward Saint Stanislaus. Several nuns had already assembled in the church yard.

“Some of you get on the church roof with water buckets in case any embers land up there. The rest grab all the buckets and burlap sacks you can find and head for the river,” Mazurek ordered. He jumped onto his plow horse and sent the animal lumbering toward the river, less than two city blocks distant.

Father Jankowski and several men gathered the fire buckets from the church. They passed several to the others, then ran for the riverbank.

The fire was spreading rapidly, flames leaping fifty feet into the air. Sheriff Ben Musgrave led about thirty townspeople who were battling to contain the blaze to the south bank of the Medina.

“Don’t bother to cross the river!” Musgrave ordered. “We can’t save anything on that side. You men in the river start filling buckets. The rest of you keep any embers that blow across from catching. If we lose here the whole town will burn to the ground.”

The firefighters filled pails and soaked burlap sacks. When an ember landed in the dray grass and brush, it was doused with water or smothered under wet burlap.

“There’s a wagon tryin’ to get across!” Mazurek yelled. The firefighters saw a hard-driven team pulling a buckboard holding a husband, wife, and six children galloping along the riverbank.

“That’s the Markewicz’s!” Anton Bach shouted.

Jerzy Markewicz found a gap in the flames and urged the terrified horses through. Barely slowing, they plunged into the Medina. The buckboard tipped on two wheels, hung for a moment, then settled back and lurched up the opposite bank. Markewicz sawed the reins to pull the panicky horses to a halt.

Several firefighters and nuns surrounded the wagon.

“Is everyone all right?” Father Jankowski asked.

“Yeah. But we lost everything,” Markewicz answered. His wife was trying to comfort their sobbing children.

“We’ll take the children,” Sister Anastasia ordered. The youngsters were handed to the nuns. Once certain they were cared for, Markewicz and his wife Anna joined the firefighting efforts.

Stan Mazurek attached a log to his horse’s harness, then tied sacks to that. The horse balked in fear of the flames and smoke when the farmer attempted to drive him into the Medina. With firm hand and soothing voice, Mazurek calmed the animal and urged the bay into the water. Once the sacks were drenched, he led the horse from the river and jumped on its back. Mazurek

pushed the horse into a trot along the riverbank, the wet log and sacks dragging behind flattening brush and grass, clearing a rough firebreak.

Nonetheless, the blaze threatened to overwhelm their efforts. The shifting wind sent burning debris in all directions. The heat and humidity added to the firefighters’ misery.

“Don’t give up! We’ve almost got it licked!” Mazurek urged. He sent his horse plunging back into the river to soak the burlaps once again.

For hours the crew fought the conflagration, rushing to douse any new flames which flared up. Regina and several of the sisters kept everyone provided with sandwiches, coffee, and cold water. Other nuns helped battle the blaze.

Mother Mary Claire worked until the sack she was wielding disintegrated. Undaunted, she pulled the veil from her head, revealing her flowing blonde hair. She dipped the veil in the river and used it to beat back the flames.

Sister Luke, one of the novices, stared in shock at her superior. For just a few seconds so did Mazurek, before shaking his head in admiration and turning his horse again.

“Mother, I was taught we were always to wear our full habit in public,” Sister Luke exclaimed.

“This is no time to stand on propriety, child,” the Mother Superior scolded. A burning ember landed three feet from her. She slapped out the flames with her wet veil.

By sunset, the wind slowed to a gentle zephyr. The fire, having consumed most of the fuel on the south side of the Medina, burned itself out. With the threat to the church and town over, the firefighters settled to extinguishing some remaining hot spots and smoldering brush.

An hour later, the worn-out group stumbled back to the church. Despite the sparks and embers which had landed on its roof, the sturdily built structure of native stone stood unharmed.

Joe Urban and the men who’d defended the church descended, gratefully accepting coffee and the remaining sandwiches.

“Is that fire completely out?” he questioned.

“It appears to be,” Mazurek answered. He was still taking an occasional glance at the good-looking blonde Mother Mary Claire.

“Joe, Stash, Karol, you did a fine job on the roof,” Father Nowicki praised.

“It was touch and go for awhile,” Urban explained. “A big ember landed on the steeple. We were fortunate

to get to it before it could do more than scorch a few shingles.”

“I’d like to thank everyone,” Nowicki announced, “Including those who aren’t parishioners of Saint Stanislaus. Tomorrow evening at seven o’clock we will celebrate a Novena of Thanksgiving to our Lord for sparing our church, our community, and ourselves from that fire. However, the Markewicz’z have lost everything. They’ll be staying at Maria Bish’s temporarily. Saturday we’ll have a house raising for them. But for tonight, we’ll say a prayer of gratitude, then get a good night’s rest.

The exhausted firefighters bowed their heads while Fathers Nowicki and Jankowski led them in the Our Father, Hail Mary, and Glory Be. Nowicki concluded by blessing the assemblage with the Sign of the Cross, then dismissed them.

“Father, wait a minute,” Stan Mazurek requested. He called to the sheriff and Markewicz.

“Ben, I’d like to speak with you. You too, Jerzy.”

They joined the priests as they headed for the rectory.

“What’s on your mind, Stan?” Musgrave asked.

“It’s bothering me how that fire started,” Mazurek responded. “There’ve been no lightning strikes, and no other way I can imagine for a fire to start down by the

river. The wheat isn’t ready for harvest, so no one’s been working in the fields. Jerzy, did you see anything?”

“No. Anna spotted smoke, then the flames came over the ridge behind our place so quickly we barely had time to harness the team and flee for our lives. Our house was afire before we could save anything.”

“Perhaps a passing cowboy tossed away a cigarette he hadn’t extinguished,” Nowicki speculated.

“Possibly. But that fire spread awful fast, even with the wind,” Mazurek demurred. “I can’t help but think of Jack Taylor.”

“I don’t think he’d stoop that low,” Nowicki protested. “That fire could have destroyed the entire town. Would Taylor chance that?”

“I might be wrong. Lord knows I hope I am. But Taylor is hungry for control of the entire county,” Mazurek answered.

“And don’t forget some of the other incidents recently,” Jankowski added. “Cattle rustling, never a problem before. Vandalism at the cypress mill. The crops which have been trampled. Sheriff, what’s your opinion?”

“I’d hate to think someone would deliberately endanger so many lives,” Musgrave replied. “It’s hard to believe anyone could be that callous. However, there

does seem to be a pattern. Unfortunately, what we need is proof, and we have none.”

“We’re all too tired to think straight tonight,” Nowicki said. “Let’s get some sleep. We can talk about this tomorrow.”

“The best advice I’ve heard today,” Musgrave agreed. “I’ll stop by about ten. Good night, Fathers. ‘Night, Stan, Jerzy.”

“Dobranoc, everyone,” Nowicki answered.