As the boat made slow progress upstream, Rascomb seemed to be the only member of the party who enjoyed the adventure. His eyes flashed and he kept up a steady stream of animated conversation.
At length he steered the boat to shore, explaining that it was necessary to portage around a beaver dam which blocked the river.
While Doyle and Rascomb moved the craft, Flash took pictures. Rejoining his companions, they rowed on through a narrow pass lined to the water’s edge with dry brush and scrub trees.
By this time the low rumble of the fire plainly was audible. Flaming brands carried on the high wind, dropped with a hissing sound about the boat.
Rascomb indicated a cliff to the right, a quarter of a mile beyond the pass.
“You might get a fairly good view of the fire from that high point.”
After a hard climb, the three at last reached the summit. Gazing to the eastward they saw a great wall of flame and smoke. A wave of heat rose from the valley, smashing at their faces.
Setting up his camera, Flash ran through fifty feet of film and reloaded. So engrossed did he become in his task that he lost all count of time.
Rascomb touched his arm.
“We should be starting back,” he said. “The wind is bringing the fire this way. If the brush should catch behind us from a flying brand, we might easily be trapped.”