The wagons bounced apart, and the left side of the San Francisco pumper, the side that Cole was on, scraped against the trunks of the trees next to the path. The impact of that collision sent the wagon sliding to the right again, so that it slammed once more into the Oakland pumper. The men on the wagons were screaming and cursing, and Annabel hoped none of them had been hurt. She hung on desperately as both wagons somehow made it through the turn upright. The horses were still running.
The San Francisco team was racing out of control, though, Annabel saw to her horror. Patsy O'Flaherty was no longer on the driver's seat, and the reins had slipped down and were trailing along loose among the flashing legs of the horses. Annabel jerked her head around so that she could look behind, and she saw a huddled shape in a leather overcoat lying motionless on the ground at the edge of the trees. Patsy had been knocked off the seat by the collision.
The San Francisco wagon continued to race out of control. If the horses weren't stopped somehow, there was no telling what catastrophe might occur. The wagon might crash, or it might even go rocketing off the race course into the crowd, where scores of innocent spectators could be trampled by the hooves of the team or crushed by the iron wheels of the wagon.
From the corner of her eye she saw a man start to climb over the boiler toward the driver's seat. With a shock, she realized it was Cole. He was trying to reach the seat, retrieve the reins, and stop the team. His face was set in a resolute expression. Annabel's heart seemed to be in her throat as she watched him inch his way forward, utilizing whatever meager handholds and footholds he could find.
Suddenly, the horses, for whatever reason, veered off the path and started across an open field. Some spectators were nearby, and they scurried frantically for safety, running to get out of the wagon's way. The pumper bounced violently over a rut, causing Cole to slip. Annabel almost screamed as it looked for a dizzying instant as if he would go flying off the wagon.
But then he found a firmer handhold and hauled himself closer to the driver's seat With a final lunge forward, he rolled over the back of it and fell onto the floorboard. Annabel craned her neck, trying to see if he was all right. A cold, clammy fear filled her.
Then she saw his head as he clambered upright on the seat He had lost his helmet He bent forward, dropping out of Annabel's sight again, and she figured he was trying to reach the loose reins.
Abruptly, without thinking about what she was doing, she started to climb. Cole was up there risking his life for all of them, and she couldn't let him do that alone. If it had been Earl Tabor or Captain McPhee or any of her partners from the smoke-jumper unit she would have gone to their aid without hesitation. Even though she wasn't a member, of the San Francisco Fire Department she found that she could do no less now.
Besides, that was Cole up there . . .
One of the men beside her yelled, "Hey! Are you crazy?" as she started to scramble toward the driver's seat. She ignored him and pulled herself onto the boiler. If it had been full of water with a head of steam up, there would have been no way she could have done that; the heat would have burned the flesh right off her bones. But for this race, the boilers had been emptied. That was a stroke of luck, and Annabel intended to take advantage of it.
Her heart pounded. She was scared, no doubt about it— scared for herself, scared for Cole, just plain scared. But she knew she could overcome that fright. Only a fool risked his or her life without a little fear. That was what courage was: going ahead despite the fear.
She found a toehold, then a handhold, and pulled herself forward, sliding over the curved top of the boiler.
The driver's seat was only a couple of feet away now. Annabel could see Cole lying on the floorboard, his arm reaching down between the horses as he tried to grab the wildly flailing reins. They whipped back and forth, and Cole strained forward farther and farther as he stretched his fingers toward them . . .
Suddenly Annabel cried out in terror as he started to slip off the floorboard. In another second, he was going to plunge right under the flashing, deadly hooves of the team.
She threw herself forward, letting instinct take over. As she tumbled over the back of the driver's seat, one hand clamped onto the brass railing at the edge of the seat while the other reached for Cole. Her fingers grabbed the back of his coat, bunching up the leather as she fought to hold on to it. As her grip solidified, she shouted, "I've got you!"
Cole managed to grab the trailing reins. He twisted them around his wrist. As soon as Annabel saw that he had the reins secure, she began hauling back on his coat with all her strength. Slowly, Cole rose from his precarious position. He was able to get a hand underneath himself so that he could help lift his weight, and finally he sprawled back onto the floorboard next to Annabel. He hauled hard on the reins, yelling, "Whoa! Whoa!" to the horses. Gradually, as they began to slow down, Cole took up the slack on the reins and brought them under control.
Only when the team had come to a complete stop and the danger was over did he look over at Annabel, utter astonishment in his eyes.
Well, she thought, it looked like the masquerade was over.