Rascomb rowed tirelessly, refusing to allow Flash or Doyle to relieve him. He sent the boat forward in powerful spurts. They swept around a curve of the river.
A gasp of horror escaped from Doyle who sat in the bow. Rascomb stopped rowing.
Directly ahead lay Gersham’s Pass. And on either shore, lining the narrow space, rose walls of flame.
There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Rascomb spoke.
“Well, boys, we’re trapped if we stay here. Only one thing to do! We must wet our clothing and try to run through it!”
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.
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.