_DOYLE’S TREACHERY_
Flash and Doyle stared in sheer fascination at the sight before their
eyes. Even as they recognized the danger, their pulses quickened at the
possibility of a spectacular picture of the flaming pass.
“What a shot that will make!” gasped Doyle. “Give me the camera, Flash!”
Rascomb had no interest in pictures at such a moment. Steering the boat
to shallow water, he sprang out, ordering tersely: “Wet your clothing
and be quick about it!”
The newsreel men both obeyed, but Doyle dragged the camera after him.
Moving up shore a few yards he focused it upon Gersham Pass.
“Come back here! Don’t be a fool!” Rascomb shouted harshly. “We’ve no
time for pictures now.”
Dousing his entire body in the river, he motioned for Flash to do
likewise.
“Now into the boat!” he commanded. “If Doyle wants to stay here that’s
his funeral, not ours!”
Flash hesitated. He had no intention of leaving Doyle behind. But
unquestionably, it was no time for picture taking.
“Get in, I say!”
Rascomb’s hard tone brought Flash up sharply. In this moment of stress,
the man’s voice had changed completely. Gone was every trace of the
cultivated drawl which had made his speech distinctive.
Flash stared at Rascomb. With wet clothing clinging to his body, hair
plastered against his forehead, the man looked much thinner. Even more
startling, a tiny pink smear was visible on his left cheek. The edges of
a jagged scar were faintly perceptible.
Flash saw the disfiguring mark and suddenly understood.
Taken completely by surprise he could not hide an expression of
horrified amazement. Nor was he able to choke off a low cry: “_Povy!_”
Rascomb’s face became contorted with rage. Seizing an oar, he swung it
with deadly aim.
Flash ducked and jerked up a hand to ward off the blow. Swiftly as he
acted, he was not quick enough to entirely deflect it. The oar struck
him glancingly on the head.
Momentarily stunned, he staggered sideways, clutching at the boat for
support. His weight pulled it over, throwing Rascomb into the water.
Before Flash could struggle to his feet, brutal hands were at his
throat. He fought weakly to free himself.
Then he was given a powerful shove out into deep water. The current
caught him, pulling him downstream.
Dazed, Flash could not battle against it. He rolled over on his back.
“Doyle!” he tried to shout.
His words came only as a choked gurgle. He slipped beneath the surface,
fought up again, and losing interest in the struggle, knew no more.
Flash recovered consciousness to find himself lying on his side in the
soft mud. His feet trailed in the water. Whether or not he had reached
shore by his own efforts or the current had brought him there, he did
not know.
Pulling himself to his knees, he gazed about. Downstream, the wall of
fire had risen to greater height. Burning brands dropped like
snowflakes, making a hissing sound as they were extinguished by the
water.
There was no sign of Rascomb, Doyle, or the boat.
Bitter thoughts surged over Flash. So he had been deserted and left to
die! He might expect such treatment from Albert Povy who had masqueraded
as Rascomb, but Doyle’s actions were unexplainable.
Struggling to his feet, he gazed hopelessly upstream.
Fires were starting everywhere and slowly spreading together. Rascomb
had said the only way out was through Gersham Pass. Should he attempt to
reach the lodge by the woods route, he was almost certain to find
himself soon hemmed in by flames. Either he must attempt the pass or
remain submerged in water until the fire had burned itself out.
Flash was in no mood to wait. A frenzy possessed him to get back to the
lodge and confront both Rascomb and Doyle.
As yet, the full meaning of his important discovery was not entirely
clear. But about one point he was certain. Albert Povy never had lost
his life in the wreck of the streamliner. Instead, the man merely had
found it expedient to disappear.
Rascomb actually was Povy!
Yet, it seemed fantastic. Had the man lived a dual life for years,
planning toward the day when he might wish to blot out one personality
and assume another?
“Povy must be wanted by officials for questioning as a spy,” Flash
reasoned. “Probably that was why he decided to disappear. I must get
back to town and let the authorities know!”
Raising a hand to his throbbing head, he forced himself to think only of
the problem immediately confronting him. Unless he acted quickly, he
might never escape to tell his story.
Determining to attempt the pass, Flash waded out into midstream.
Allowing the swift current to carry him off his feet he floated with it,
stroking only enough to keep from being swung toward shore again.
The suffocating, cinder-filled air was a little easier to breathe close
above the water, but the terrific heat became almost unbearable.
As the shores of the river narrowed, he took a deep breath and swam
below the surface. After a few moments he was forced to emerge again.
Flames seemed to be everywhere about him.
Gulping in air, Flash dived again. This time he kept under until his
lungs ached. When he came up, the worst lay behind him.
Aided by the current, he alternately swam and floated until he reached
the river’s outlet. Staggering from the water, he leaned against a tree
and gazed across the lake.
He knew where the lodge should be, but he could not see it because of
the smoke. The sun had been entirely blotted out.
Following the shore line, Flash walked as rapidly as he could. His wet
clothing impeded him and chills began to rack his body. Several times he
slipped into bog up to his knees.
The day seemed to grow steadily darker. With a sense of shock Flash
realized that night actually was coming on. He tried to walk faster but
could not. Each step had become a torment, for he had discarded his
shoes while swimming in the river.
With darkness closing in swiftly, Flash lost all sense of bearing and
clung doggedly to the shore. To the rear, the sky was red with leaping
flames. Ahead, there was nothing to guide him.
Blindly he staggered on. And then, through the trees, he caught the
gleam of a light shining from a cabin window. He had reached the lodge!
The clearing opened up ahead of him. Finding himself on Rascomb’s
property, Flash tempered his approach with caution. Save for the light,
there was no sign of anyone about the place.
Reaching the dock, he counted the boats and bent to examine them. The
one which Doyle and Rascomb had used was tied to a post with a charred
rope.
“They returned safely, all right,” he muttered, “and they’re figuring
they’re well rid of me!”
Flash had taken no time to consider his next move. But sober reflection
now convinced him it would be folly to confront Doyle and Rascomb in his
present weakened condition. At best, it would be two against one. His
wisest course was to go into town and tell his story to the authorities.
Walking unsteadily, he made his way to the road where the _News-Vue_
truck had been parked hours before. It was gone.
As Flash stood leaning against a tree, debating, the door of the lodge
slammed shut. A dark figure moved down the gravel path toward him.
“That may be Rascomb coming now,” he thought.
Quickly he stepped behind the protecting trunk of the giant birch, and
waited.