The Phantoms of the Fire by Clark Ashton Smith

It was late summer, and the Georgetown road was deep with dust, which had settled like a dun pall on the bordering chaparral and pines. Since he had walked all the way from Auburn without securing a single lift, the man who was trudging along the road with the broiling afternoon sun on his back was hardly less dusty than the trees. He paused now and then to mop his face with a discoloured handkerchief, or to peer rather wistfully at the occasional cars which passed him without offering to stop. His clothing, though not actually ragged, was old and worn, and had the indescribable shapelessness of clothing that has been slept in. He was very thin, stoop-shouldered, and discouraged-looking; his general aspect was almost that of a professional tramp; and the people of the countryside were suspicious of tramps.

"Well, I guess I'll have t' walk all the way," he said to himself, whining a little even in his thoughts. "But it ain't much further now. Gosh, but things is hot an' dry. " He looked about him at the familiar landscape of parched grass, brushwood and yellow pines with an appraising eye. "Wonder there ain't been more fires -- there alluz is at this time o' year."