High winds and more pressing farm duties had interfered with running the fire guards. It was not until the week before Thanksgiving that the men got at it, then they succeeded only in protecting the stacks. They had intended to finish the job the following morning, but one of the neighbors, passing through the lane, stopped to tell Dr. Morton of a sale of yearlings to be held the next afternoon in the neighboring county. "It must be part of the Elliott herd. They're three-quarters bred shorthorn; I'd like mighty well to pick up a bunch of them. We have plenty of feed for any ordinary winter." Dr. Morton was talking the matter over with Frank after supper. "Suppose we ride over, Father, it's only about twenty miles. We can start early--we don't need to buy unless they are actually a bargain." They were off at six the following morning, planning to return the same day. Dr. Morton, however, warned his wife not to be anxious if she did not see them before the next afternoon. If they bought the steers, they would not try to drive them home the same day. The morning was bright and pleasant, but the wind rose toward mid-day and was blowing a young gale by the time Chicken Little returned from school at half-past four. Mrs. Morton began worrying lest the doctor and Frank had not wrapped up sufficiently. "Why, it isn't cold yet, Mrs. Morton. In fact, it is astonishingly warm for November. And there's the queerest, yellowish haze I have ever seen." Sherm said this to reassure her. "Probably dust," replied Mrs. Morton carelessly, relieved from her anxiety about her family. Chicken Little hurried through her supper and went over to see Marian. Presently Marian threw a shawl over her head and they both climbed the hill back of the house. The wind was still blowing fiercely. Sherm saw them on the ridge and followed to see what was tempting them to a stroll on such a night. "What's up?" Marian answered. "Why, Jane thinks all this yellow haze comes from a prairie fire. We've been trying to see if we could see any trace of it. It seems to me I do smell smoke--there's a kind of pungent tang to the air, too." Marian sniffed uneasily. "Like burning grass or leaves?" Marian's face paled. "Sherm, that's exactly what it is! What can we do? And the menfolks all away except Jim Bart, and he's gone to Benton's on an errand. He'll be back in a few minutes though." "Don't worry, Marian," said Jane, "if it's a prairie fire it's miles and miles off. It must be on the other side of Little John. It can never cross the creek--besides, the wind is blowing the wrong way for it to sweep down on us." "That's so--but the wind might change any minute, and in a gale like this I'm not so sure it might not jump Little John. I do wish Frank had finished that back-firing."