The words brought a stammering summary from the chief while the volunteers, who years ago had named their company the Station Stalwarts and gilded its motto, Officium Pro Periculo, on every piece of equipment, continued to work the front and back pumping brakes. The water was wasted on the demolished house. All that could be done was protect the nearby hovels and shanties from the spreading effect of the wind. So the chief had time to speak to the most important man in town.

He said it looked like Fenton had discovered his wife in bed with his cousin earlier in the evening. The foreman had taken a large kitchen knife and stabbed his wife and her lover before setting fire to the house. During that time, the mortally wounded cousin managed to turn the knife back on his attacker, stabbing him four times. Tears filled George's eyes, and he scrubbed at them with hard knuckles. Fenton had been the politest of men; well read, industrious, intelligent, kind to those he supervised.

"That's him yelling," said the chief. "But he don't figure to live long. The other two was dead when we got here. We dragged them out and covered them up. They're lying over there if you want to look."

Somehow, George was compelled. He walked toward the two bodies, foul-smelling beneath a square of canvas in the middle of the street. The screaming went on. The wind fanned the fire, gave it a whooshing voice, and swirled embers and glowing debris upward. The volunteers continued to pump furiously, two rows of men on each brake, one row on the ground, the other on the platform running the width of the engine. The riveted leather hoses, brought in two coffinlike wagons, ran clear across the abandoned canal to the river for water. The matched black horses, trained for this work, continued to behave strangely, pawing, and throwing their heads, and flashing their red-reflecting flanks.