Fire - A Sam Maxwell Adventure

Stephanie’s nightgown tugged appealingly as she made her coffee. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Well, nothing, just right this second.” She granted the kiss I’d been fishing for, but nothing else. “First custom rig pulled into town.”

“Harvest season comes about the same time every year, Sheriff.” Her grin was hiding behind her curtain of auburn hair.

“You knew it was going to get here eventually.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to be happy to see it.”

“It’s the circle of life here, Sam.”

“It’s a week of abject misery. It’s nothing but barfights, speeders, and drunk and disorderlies.”

She turned and graced me with another kiss. “Poor baby.”

I knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, exactly what was going to happen as soon as I touched her satin covered hips to pull her closer.

No question at all. . .

I was just superstitious enough to consider holding back, on the off chance it would ward off the inevitable, before I let my fingers caress the lovely curves.

“WNCH 393 base to Sheriff Maxwell."

Steph gave me a devilish smile before she disappeared into the living room to fire up the TV and start her own morning ritual.

I snapped my handheld radio loose from my belt and keyed it. “Go ahead.”

“We just got a report of a wildfire in Sheridan County. It’s not far from the county line. They’re predicting south winds today.”

Well, that sucks. “Show me 10-76 to county line for observation.”

“Roger that, Sheriff. Drive safe.”

“Will do. Maxwell clear.”

*****

Northwestern Kansas, and particularly Decatur County, was easy to get around. Two major highways bisected the county. Highway 83 ran north-to-south, and 36 east-to-west. 36 would take you to Denver if you followed it into the sunset.

From there, the county was subdivided into a one-mile square grid. Each square was commonly called a ‘section’, and each had a numerical designation. Quality varied, but the majority of section boundaries had at least a trail if not a decent gravel road. Frequent road signs also worked off the numerical grid, further simplifying navigation.

I decided to set off down Hollywood Boulevard, the gravel road that ran south a mile east of and parallel to 83. While I had somewhere to head, there was nowhere I needed to be, so steaming down the gravel gave me a chance to lollygag a bit and take in the sights.

The smaller farms were the best indicator that summer harvest truly was just around the corner. Combines were being greased, fueled, and panels were being closed and latched. Windows would be washed next. They’d be taking tests to town once the dew went off.

Wheat had to be a certain moisture percentage before it could be harvested and safely stored. The process happened quickly even under normal conditions, and this year’s La Niña hadn’t slowed things down. Harvest would come and go in a week or less if the weather held, which it was predicted to do.

I pulled into the Lewis place, mostly because I saw Norman walking toward his three ancient silver combines, parked military style in the grass in front of his shop. He had a roll of paper towels under his arm and a bottle of window cleaner in his hand, weapons of the trade for the coming battle.

The blast of cool air that came as I rolled down the window removed any trace of drowsiness from the night shift I’d already worked.

“What do you think, Norm?” I asked as I idled alongside him.

“It takes a big dog to weigh a ton.”

 “It takes a bigger dog to whoop its ass. You going to sample wheat today?”

“I ain’t going to call bingo to it.”

I chuckled. “You’re a grumpy old bugger. You know that, don’t you?”

“I hate harvest, Maxwell. You know I hate harvest, because I hated when I was twelve years old, I hated it the moment we met, and I still hate it now.”

“You farmers are supposed to look forward to this all year long.”

Norm nodded. “You do everything you’re supposed to?”

I thought back to Stephanie’s negligee tugging against her backside. “Not everything.”

“Anything I can do to help you, Sheriff?”

I pointed south. “Word has it there’s a fire down in Sheridan. Take a second and hook up a disc for me?”

“Will do,” Norm said.

“All right then,” I said. “Let me know if you need anything. We’ll see you Sunday morning.”

“Be safe, Sheriff.”

“Will do.” I backed through a turn and idled out of the yard, taking a right on the boulevard.

Kansas was one of the most unique places I’d ever been. The weather had nothing on the Sahara Desert – it’d freeze you in the morning and cook you for lunch. There were animals, things growing, and peace. From ripe fields of wheat to grazing cattle, there was more than a little to see as I trundled south toward the black smudge rising over the horizon.

I’d been around the area long enough to attach a dollar value to the scenery. An acre of wheat alone averaged around 300 dollars, and there were about 2,500 acres within easy eyeshot, landing just over three-quarters of a million dollars. Given the county’s 420,000 acres of farmland, that meant there was at least 42 million dollars of wheat out there waiting for harvest, and that said nothing of the higher-value crops like corn or beans.

The wall of dust kicked up by the south wind in front of me was blinding, but it opened my eyes to the real threat of a fire. It hadn’t rained for weeks. 

My county was a tinderbox, and someone had dropped a match just over the border.

***