While the arrangement was not pleasing to Flash, he could do nothing about it, and so settled himself for an uncomfortable ride.
They followed the pavement for a distance of four miles, and then turned down a narrow, rutty road. The truck jounced and bumped, shaking the loose equipment around.
There was almost no traffic, but whenever they did pass an automobile, a great cloud of suffocating dust rolled into their faces.
“This section must have missed the rains,” Flash remarked. “Even the trees look dry.”
The car rattled on, making poor time. Doyle fumed at the delay and kept glancing at his watch.
Flash was in no hurry for the trip to end. While the ride might be uncomfortable, the scenery was interesting. Hillocks were studded with huge boulders, and the twisting roadway was hemmed in with pine trees. Now and then they glimpsed a patch of blue lake tucked behind the screen of evergreens.
A half hour’s drive brought them to the railroad town of Clear Lake which consisted of little more than a post office and a few houses. At the edge of the village stood a ranger’s station. A man in uniform held up his hand for the truck to stop.
“You’re newsreel men I see,” the ranger observed pleasantly. “Going in to take pictures of the fire?”
“What fire?” Doyle asked in astonishment.
“A small one has been reported over near Craig Point. The wind is blowing it this way. Thought I’d give you a word of warning.”