She felt herself starting to slip as the wagon rocked around another turn. Spreading her feet a little wider on the catwalk for stability, she tightened her hold on the brass bar. Suddenly, the wagon hit a rough spot in the path, and the entire vehicle leaped into the air for a split second.
Annabel let out an involuntary yelp as her feet went out from under her.
Her hands clamped like a vise onto the grab bar as she scrambled to get her feet back on the catwalk. For a long moment, she was hanging there on the side of the fire wagon, supported by nothing except her desperate grip. In that instant, she wondered how badly she would be hurt if she fell. If she landed clear of the wagon, she. might get by with only a broken bone or two. But if she slipped underneath it, the wheels would surely crush her. . .
Then the toe of her boot caught the edge of the catwalk. She managed to keep that tenuous hold while she got her other foot back on the walk. She pulled herself against the side of the boiler, grateful for its solid support. Her knees were trembling.
The man directly behind her shouted over the thunder of hoofbeats, "Better hang on!"
Annabel nodded. That was exactly what she intended to do.
She looked around, trying to figure out where they were and how much of the race course they had covered. The spectators who lined the route, faceless blurs for the most part at this speed, flashed past her. She couldn't recognize anything. She knew the Golden Gate Park of her own time quite well, but even though the general layout was the same, enough was different that she couldn't tell where they were. The grassy fields, the rolling hills, the gardens, and the groves of trees all looked the same to her. She closed her eyes and leaned against the boiler again. The bouncing, rocking motion was beginning to make her feel a little sick. She wondered if she had gotten herself in deeper than she could-handle.
No! That was ridiculous, she told herself. She had faced much worse dangers almost every week of the past few years as a smoke-jumper. She wasn't going to let herself be overwhelmed by a simple thing like riding on an old-fashioned, horse-drawn fire wagon.
The sound of hoofbeats grew louder. She glanced to her right and saw that the Oakland Fire Department wagon was trying to draw even. The Sari Francisco wagon had been ahead almost from the first, but now the Oakland wagon was cutting into the lead, and she wondered if the SFFD horses were growing tired. She heard the Oakland driver shouting at his team and looked again to see that the rival wagon was pulling even closer.
Patsy O'Flaherty had to be aware of that, too. He was flapping the reins frantically and doing plenty of shouting of his own as he urged his horses on to greater speed.
Though it took an effort of will, Annabel leaned out away from the solidity of the boiler and peered ahead along the race course. She saw another sharp turn coming up, and as the path curved, it went between two stands of trees. The path looked barely big enough for two vehicles side by side. As the wagons drew nearer to the turn, Annabel saw to her alarm that the path wasn't big enough for both of them. One or the other of the wagons was going to have to fall back a little.
But neither Patsy nor the other driver showed any signs of doing so. The San Francisco wagon was still in the lead, but only by about half the length of one horse. The Oakland pumper was so close that Annabel could have reached out and touched the leather overcoats of the men riding on the wagon's left-hand catwalk. She could see the tense, grim lines in which their faces were set and knew that she and her teammates had to appear much the same.
She looked ahead again. The hairpin turn was only about fifty yards away now, and neither driver was giving any ground. She heard shouting from the other side of the pumper and came up on her toes again. Cole was yelling something at Patsy, probably warning him. He wasn't even glancing in Annabel's direction. All his attention was focused on the race.
A couple of the firemen on Annabel's side of the wagon waved at the Oakland wagon, motioning for it to fall back.
The Oakland driver ignored them and lashed his team more furiously. Annabel could tell from the set, determined expression on the man's face that he wasn't going to give up. He must have believed that he could pass the San Francisco wagon and reach the turn first
But there was neither room nor time for that reckless plan to succeed. The horses leaped forward, and both wagons careened into the turn.
Annabel saw the Oakland wagon swaying toward her, and she jerked her feet up so that she was once again hanging on the side of the pumper. The catwalks came together with a grinding crash. Annabel felt the heavy jolt go through the wagon and tightened her grip on the brass bar.