Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 099 - The Salamanders

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THE SALAMANDERS
Maxwell Grant
This page copyright © 2001 Blackmask Online.
http://www.blackmask.com
? CHAPTER I. FIRE OF DOOM
? CHAPTER II. THE LONE TRAIL
? CHAPTER III. THE BROKEN TRAIL
? CHAPTER IV. CROOKS AGREE
? CHAPTER V. THE TRAIL REGAINED
? CHAPTER VI. THE VOICE OF DEATH
? CHAPTER VII. FOEMEN OF THE FLAMES
? CHAPTER VIII. THE ODDS FAIL
? CHAPTER IX. THE THIRD CAMPAIGN
? CHAPTER X. THE THIRD CAR
? CHAPTER XI. DEATH IN THE DARK
? CHAPTER XII. THE ORDEAL
? CHAPTER XIII. THE FIERY PIT
? CHAPTER XIV. CRIME'S HOUR
? CHAPTER XV. THE DYNAMITE BOX CAR
? CHAPTER XVI. THE SHADOW'S COURSE
? CHAPTER XVII. DRUNE'S DECREE
? CHAPTER XVIII. FROM THE SKY
? CHAPTER XIX. THE FINAL FRAY
? CHAPTER XX. THE DEPARTURE
CHAPTER I. FIRE OF DOOM
"FIRE! Fire!"
The shouts rose hoarsely on the midnight air. The glare of rising flames showed wild-eyed men as they
dashed to spread the alarm.
Madness had gripped the town of Riverport; excitement of a sort that the little Southern city had never
before known. The crackling blaze that had come into sudden life was a threat that promised great
disaster.
The fire had started in the Capital Hotel - the principal structure that adorned the main street of
Riverport. The blaze had arisen like a living monster coming out of hiding.
A burst of flame; smoke pouring bodily through ground-floor windows; then demonish tongues of fire,
lapping upward, crackling on to fury.
The Capitol Hotel was a fire trap.
"Fire!"
Faces were answering the shouts. White faces peered from upstairs windows. Staring eyes saw the
flickering reflections of the flames. Faces disappeared from sight. Occupants of the hotel were hastily
preparing for escape.
The wail of a fire siren split the night air. The alarm had been given. The clanging of bells told that
Riverport's fire engines were emerging to fight the flames; Those engines were coming to a hopeless task.
Nothing could stop that fire. The flimsy, wooden walls of the old frame hotel were perfect fuel for the
devouring flames.
Within the burning building, commotion reigned. Men were dashing about, pounding upon doors,
shouting through corridors. Their one hope was to arouse their fellow guests, then make a dash for
safety. There was no time to linger.
Nevertheless, in all that bedlam, there was one man who acted with calmness. He was the occupant of
Room 408. His name was Harry Vincent. Aroused by a hammering upon his door, Harry had shouted
his response. Out of bed, he was donning his clothes by the light of the fire that other buildings reflected
through his window.
There was a reason for this man's precision, his ability to avoid the panic that had overtaken others.
Harry Vincent was an agent of The Shadow. He was a man trained to remain calm in the face of danger.
Though he knew that speed was necessary, Harry had other thoughts than those of escape. He was
remembering the mission that had brought him to the city of Riverport, to register at the Capitol Hotel.
Chester Woldorf.
THE name drummed through Harry's brain, more vividly than the clanging of bells, or the wailing of the
shrieking siren. Woldorf was the cause of Harry's presence here. Like Harry, Woldorf was a guest at the
Capitol Hotel.
Harry had seen Woldorf in the lobby last night. He knew the man's room number: 411, almost across the
hall from Harry's own room. Woldorf had retired at eleven o'clock. He had left a call for seven in the
morning. Harry had left a call for the same hour.
Harry had guessed that Woldorf would take the eight o'clock train to New York. It had been Harry's
plan to do the same. Woldorf, for some reason not yet determined, was a man who feared a threat.
That fact had been learned by The Shadow. Threats indicated crime; The Shadow, always at war with
men of evil, had delegated Harry to take up Woldorf's trail.
Bells were clanging from the street below. Water from fire hoses was fizzing uselessly, drowned by the
increasing crackle of the flames. The light of the fire had become a ghoulish, crimson glow. The glare
outlined Harry Vincent as he yanked open the door of his room.
Dressed, Harry was ready for departure. An overwhelming cloud of blackish smoke greeted him in the
corridor. Harry was prepared for it. Burying his face in the bend of his elbow, he groped his way across
the hall. His free hand found the knob of Woldorf's door.
Smoke had cleared partially, thanks to the draught created when Harry had opened his own door. The
flames had not reached this floor. There was time to make sure that Woldorf had heard the alarm. Harry
pounded furiously upon the door of Room 411.
There was no response. Smoke thickened as it floated along the corridor. Holding his breath, Harry
backed away, then launched himself like a battering-ram against the door of Woldorf's room. Shoulder
first, he splintered the rickety barrier. Stumbling, Harry caught himself before he sprawled upon the floor.
Smoke had followed Harry's charge. Clutching like a shroud of doom, it was filling Woldorf's room. The
opened window sucked smoke outward. Flickering flame light became dim, but the glow remained
enough for Harry to view the room. Steadied by the broken door, The Shadow's agent gazed in horror.
On the floor, beside the bed, lay an upturned figure clad in pajamas. Harry saw a pale face, with lips half
opened, fishlike beneath a droopy mustache. Below was a mass of crimson, splotched and streaked
across the front of Woldorf's pajama jacket.
That blotted mass of crimson was Chester Woldorf's lifeblood. The man had been stabbed in the heart!
A CRACKLING drilled Harry's numbed brain. Yellowish flicker weaved across the inner walls of the
room. From somewhere came the muffled crash of falling beams. Harry turned about toward the
corridor.
The fire had reached this floor. Brief minutes would make the room a trap. There was no aid for Woldorf
- no time to search for clues. Harry had gained enough. He had learned what some assassin had sought
to cover; namely, that Chester Woldorf had been murdered before the fire had begun in the Capitol
Hotel.
Springing from the room, Harry chose a direction away from the flames. Smoke had lessened. Though he
was choking, Harry knew that he would be safe if he could reach a stairway or a fire escape.
Smoke destroyed the lighting effect of the flames. It was only by pressing his hand along the wall that
Harry found the stairway he wanted.
Harry stumbled as he struck the first steps. He caught himself against a rail beside the heated wall. A fist
clamped his arm; he heard a gasped voice beside him:
"Steady, friend. Take it easy. We'll get out this way."
Harry coughed his thanks. He turned his head as they descended. The flickering flame light from a
stairway window showed the features of the man whom he had encountered. Harry took the fellow for
another guest who had blundered toward this path to safety.
The man on the stairway was sallow of countenance. His hair was dark; his eyes, bulging, carried a
blackish glitter. Seeing the man's profile, Harry noted a solid, out-thrust jaw.
As the man's face turned and grinned toward him, Harry observed a hardness of the lips that was
matched even by the wrinkles of the furrowed forehead.
"We'll make it."
The hard-faced man spoke raspily, as they reached a landing and continued downward.
"Easily," returned Harry. "The smoke has thinned. We are almost to the second floor."
"We're there. Keep your head down. it's going to be smoky the rest of the way."
The hard-faced man was right. He and Harry continued their descent blindly, clutching to the rail. Harry
took a false step as he reached the bottom. His heel clanked stone. He knew that he had struck a side
exit on the ground floor of the hotel.
Blinking in the smoke, he saw his companion. Ruddy light from the interior of the burning hotel showed
the hard-faced man stumbling toward another flight of steps.
"Hold it!" coughed Harry. He sprang across to block off his companion. "Don't go any farther! Those
steps lead down into the basement!"
The hard-faced man no longer wavered. He straightened. His grin was livid as he saw Harry, arms
outstretched, at the very top of the stone steps. A hoarse gasp came from Harry's lips. At that instant,
Harry knew who this man must be.
The hard-faced man was the murderer of Chester Woldorf!
Harry's cry told what he knew. It was all that the hard-faced man wanted. Before Harry could bring his
arms up, his leering companion swung a tough, swift fist. The punch clipped Harry's jaw.
WITHOUT an outcry, The Shadow's agent tumbled backward. Slugged clear of the top step, he went
tumbling, rolling to the bottom of the stone stairs.
Leering, the hard-faced man saw the final crash. Rolling over twice, Harry Vincent lay still and helpless,
deep in the basement of the doomed hotel.
Smoke enveloped the prone body. The hard-faced man turned about. As he stumbled toward the exit, it
was wrenched open. Rescuers from outside grabbed the murderer and helped him to the outside air.
Coughing, two firemen clattered inward and stared through thickening smoke.
"See if there's any others," ordered one. "Maybe down those steps -"
"There's nobody there. That's the basement."
Smoke had totally obscured Harry Vincent's unconscious form. The opening of the outside door had
brought the smoke upward. Peering through the dense smoke, the firemen saw nothing. They stood,
shouting at the exit. They heard no answering calls. While they waited, the finish came.
Fire crackled wildly from above. Walls trembled. Beams burst with a roar. Downward, a flaming mass,
came the whole interior of the old hotel. As the firemen leaped to outside safety, the walls crumbled.
From a blazing framework, the hotel was transformed into a pitlike furnace, where flames rose rampant
and sparks soared high into the night.
The bed of that furnace was the basement where Harry Vincent had sprawled. No human being could
have lain there and survived.
Crushing timbers, ablaze from end to end; masses of flaming woodwork; an entire ruin that crackled
anew like a mammoth bonfire - such was the remains of the old hotel.
Survivors had scattered. Other buildings were ablaze. The fire had reached an office building; it had
swept to a garage in back of the hotel. Automobiles were being removed by frenzied owners. Puffs of
flame formed twenty-foot torches as gasoline tanks ignited.
Firemen were everywhere, working like madmen to save other buildings. Riverport's small police force
was on hand. Tumult reigned as the holocaust continued. Volunteers were joining in the fight against the
flames.
The ruins of the Capitol Hotel were forgotten by all men except one. He was the hard-faced murderer,
the last to grope his own way out from the interior of the hotel fire, alive. A block away, he was standing
beside an automobile. His face showed an evil gloat, his dark eyes surveyed the spreading flames.
The hard-faced man was pleased. He had slain Chester Woldorf. He had removed Harry Vincent - the
only man who had learned that Woldorf was murdered. All evidence of crime lay buried in that
fire-seethed pit that had once been topped by the old Capitol Hotel.
The murderer's leer showed that he expected no reckoning. In that, the gloating killer was to find himself
mistaken.
Crime would soon receive its challenge from The Shadow.
CHAPTER II. THE LONE TRAIL
SMOLDERING ruins marked the business section of Riverport. The spreading hotel fire had not been
curbed until dawn. Twelve hours more had passed; at last the fiery pit had cooled sufficiently for
searchers to approach it.
Just outside the fire-devastated area was an undertaker's establishment that had been called into service
as a morgue. There, searchers were bringing whatever objects appeared to be human remains.
They had made few finds. The principal exhibit at the morgue was a typewritten list of guests who had
been at the hotel.
This list had been prepared by a hotel clerk who had a good memory. The hotel register had been lost in
the fire. One clerk, who had gone off duty earlier, had perished in the blaze. As near as could be
guessed, there had been about a dozen victims. The names of the survivors had been checked with a red
pencil. The other names stood barren on the list.
Among the persons who studied the list of names that afternoon was a tall, calm-faced stranger who had
arrived at Riverport on the later afternoon train. Though distinctive in appearance, he had attracted but
little attention, for his quiet manner rendered him inconspicuous.
This arrival was The Shadow.
In New York, The Shadow had read of the holocaust at Riverport. There had been no word from Harry
Vincent. Though the newspapers had classed the fire as accidental, The Shadow was sure that it had
been designed.
Two names - unchecked in red - showed on the list to prove The Shadow's belief.
One was the name of Chester Woldorf. Though the public did not know the fact, Woldorf had been a
man of considerable wealth - a shrewd speculator who had kept his affairs strictly to himself.
Woldorf had moved out of sight some months ago, to bob up at intervals in unexpected places. He had
shown by his actions that he feared some menace. That was why The Shadow had decided to learn more
about him.
The other name was that of Harry Vincent.
Fire had struck the hotel where Woldorf was located. That, in itself, was significant; yet The Shadow
could concede that Woldorf might have perished through an accident. But with Harry also named on the
death list, the aspect changed.
Harry, alert and on duty, ready for any emergency that might arise, would have learned of the fire soon
enough to leave the doomed hotel.
THERE was only one answer. Something had happened to Woldorf. Harry had investigated. He had met
with trouble before he left the hotel.
Walking from the morgue, The Shadow approached the ruins of the hotel. A small group of men were
clustered at one corner. Their discussion told that they were officials who had taken charge of the search.
The Shadow paused close by the cluster. Unnoticed in the settling dusk, he listened to the conversation.
"Some of the victims may have blundered into the basement," one man was saying. "A couple of firemen
told me they found one fellow who nearly stumbled down there."
"That sounds likely," came the comment, "except that there haven't been many human remains picked
up."
"There won't be. That fire lasted long enough to burn them to a frazzle. It was hot enough inside that fire
to melt that old safe that was in the hotel!"
"Who says that? A safe won't melt!"
"This one must have. There's no sign of it. Nobody could have lugged it away."
"What was in it? Anything important?"
"No. Old Millick, who owns the hotel, says the safe didn't count for much. It wasn't often that folks put
things there while stopping at the hotel."
The speakers moved away. The Shadow gained an immediate deduction. One hotel clerk had survived
the fire, to give from memory, the names of registered guests. The inclusion of Woldorf's name was proof
of that clerk's honesty.
But there had been a second clerk - off duty - who had presumably died in the blaze. It was possible that
Woldorf had given the dead clerk valuables for deposit in the hotel safe. To The Shadow, the absence of
a safe amid the ruins was a matter of high importance.
Could that safe have been removed during the fire?
The Shadow's answer was yes. His decision, however, was modified to suit the circumstances. The safe
could not have been carried away openly. It must have been removed in some secret fashion.
STARING across the ruins of the hotel, The Shadow saw the grayish-white outline of other crumbled
walls. They represented the garage that had adjoined the Capitol Hotel. Skirting the smoldering pit, The
Shadow reached the site of the garage.
Between the hotel and garage was an elongated pit, half filled with debris. A man in overalls was poking
about with a long stick, dislodging chunks of charred wood and stone.
The Shadow approached the man and spoke an affable greeting. When the man looked up, The Shadow
made a casual inquiry.
"Was this the storage tank," he questioned, "where they kept the gasoline for the garage?"
The searcher shook his head.
"The storage tank was up there, sir," he replied, pointing to the remains of the garage. "This was the cellar
of an old annex that used to run back from the hotel. They tore it down a couple of years ago."
"And left the cellar covered over?"
"Yes, sir. 'Twouldn't have done for gasoline storage. Too close to the hotel. Maybe it wouldn't have
mattered much, though. The hotel burnt like a tinder box as it was."
In the dusk, the man noted that The Shadow was well dressed. He looked like a stranger who might
have been a guest at the burned hotel. The man questioned:
"You had a car, sir? In the garage?"
The Shadow nodded.
"Maybe it was saved, sir," informed the man in a hopeful tone. "You'd better inquire down at the
Southern Garage, just past the depot. That's where they took what cars they could."
The Shadow headed for the Southern Garage. Strolling toward that destination, he checked his new
information. The old cellar in back of the Capitol Hotel had existed as an unseen route from the hotel to
its garage. Through that underground passage, men could have easily carried the missing safe.
To do so, they would have been forced to dare the flames. A dangerous task; one so formidable that it
seemed almost impossible. The hotel had burned with amazing rapidity; and the interval of action had,
therefore, been brief. These facts pointed definitely to a scheduled fire. They were bringing The Shadow
along a trail that showed crime.
ARRIVING at the Southern Garage, The Shadow entered to find a crowded floor. Cars were jammed
into every foot of space. No attendants were about. The Shadow pressed his way between crammed
automobiles and found an office.
There, a grimy-faced man was seated at a battered desk, going over account books. He looked up as
The Shadow entered.
"Good afternoon," greeted The Shadow, quietly. "You are the manager here?"
"Yes, sir."
"I came for my coupe," remarked The Shadow. "It was brought here from the garage at the Capitol
Hotel."
"You were in the fire, sir?"
The Shadow made no response to the manager's question. Instead, he merely continued his statement.
"Unfortunately," he said, "I no longer have the owner's card. Of course, I can identify the car. It was a
green coupe, with a New York license -"
"I know the car, sir. It's right inside the front door. You can drive it out without any trouble -"
The car in question was Harry Vincent's. It actually belonged to The Shadow; hence his statements were
correct. The garage manager took them at their face value. Riverport was a town where most men were
accepted at their word.
The manager accompanied The Shadow from the office. As they pressed their way between stored cars,
The Shadow made a quiet comment.
"Odd that you have no trucks stored here."
The garage manager turned quickly. He had reached the side of Harry's coupe; an overhead electric bulb
showed a troubled look on the man's face.
"Why did you say that, sir?"
"For no special reason," replied The Shadow. "I suppose that few trucks choose the route through
Riverport?"
"There was a truck here," declared the manager, biting at his lip. "It came from the burned hotel garage
last night. The men who brought it wanted storage here; I told them that there was no space. They kept
the truck outdoors until early this morning."
"And then?"
The Shadow's query was impressive. Almost in spite of himself, the garage manager answered. His tone
was cautious.
"I overheard one of the truckmen making a telephone call," he stated. "He was in my office, without
permission. He was telling some one that he would bring the truck on to Westhampton, about fifty miles
from here.
"He was arranging storage at Westhampton, sir. To keep the truck there all day, in a garage. He said
something about driving on to New York tonight. It sounded like they didn't want that truck to be seen
by day. Right after that, the truck left here. It wasn't daylight; they had time to reach Westhampton before
dawn. Maybe I'm suspicious, sir, but -"
With an amazing spring, The Shadow leaped into action. Coming from the front of the coupe, he
interrupted the garage man with a wide, swinging left arm, that sent the astonished fellow sprawling to the
running board of Harry's car.
His right hand jabbing upward, The Shadow stopped a swinging arm that was coming downward. A
huge, sweatered thug had sprung from behind a parked car.
A MASSIVE monkey wrench in his clutch, the hoodlum had delivered a vicious swing for the garage
manager's head. Only The Shadow's swift intervention had prevented the crushing blow. With one
stroke, The Shadow had hurled the garage manager from the path of the deadly bludgeon, had caught the
thug's arm in the middle of its drive.
The attacker writhed. With a harsh oath, he wrested his sweatered arm free and took a sweeping
sidewise swing at The Shadow's head. The wrench whisked space. Dropping, The Shadow ducked the
sweep by a clear inch.
Bobbing up, he drove a hard fist straight across the thug's arm before the attacker could recover and
ward off the punch.
Knuckles landed just beneath the thug's chin. An ugly gargle told how deep The Shadow's fist had driven
into the attacker's windpipe. The thug thudded floorward, his head cracking against the coupe's bumper.
The garage manager came to his feet and blinked. The Shadow was stepping aboard the coupe; the thug
was lying senseless on the stone floor.
"Inform your local authorities," ordered The Shadow, quietly. "You will have ample time. That fellow will
not recover within the next fifteen minutes."
"Yes, sir."
"Say nothing about the truck that went to Westhampton." The Shadow pressed the coupe's starter as he
spoke. "I shall investigate the matter."
"I understand."
The garage manager was impressed by the hawk-visaged stranger who had saved him from a murderer.
He thought that The Shadow must be a Federal agent, who had trailed the missing truck to Riverport. He
saw no connection between the hotel fire and the truck.
The coupe rolled from the garage. It swung toward the road that led to Westhampton. The garage
manager scurried forth and dashed toward the local police station, which was less than two blocks
away.
AN approaching pedestrian had stopped short when he saw the coupe pull from the garage. Lost in the
dusk, this arrival watched the tail-light twinkle as The Shadow turned the corner toward the
Westhampton road. Still watching, the pedestrian spied the garage manager's hasty exit.
With a growl, the man from the dusk hurried into the garage. Electric lights showed his features. He was
the hard-faced man who had steered Harry Vincent into the flaming basement of the Capitol Hotel.
Dark eyes showed an ugly glint as they saw the thug flattened on the floor. Hard lips uttered a savage
curse. Striding to the fallen thug, the hard-faced man raised the fellow's shoulders and growled:
"Broddy! What happened here?"
Questioning Broddy was useless. The thug was senseless. The hard-faced man moved rapidly between
the packed cars. He reached the office, seized the telephone and quickly gave a number. He was holding
a watch when the response came. In choppy tones, the hard-faced man snapped orders:
"Car due at seven ten. Coupe with New York license. Handle it, then wait."
Smashing the receiver back on its hook, the hard-faced man hurried out into the garage. He shoved an
arm under Broddy's shoulders and hoisted the thug into the back seat of a parked touring car. Springing
to the wheel, he drove from the garage.
As he took the turn at the corner, the hard-faced man saw figures emerging from the police station. The
garage manager was bringing two of Riverport's policemen. They were coming on a vacant quest. They
would not find the stunned thug whom The Shadow had left upon the garage floor.
Like Harry Vincent, The Shadow had crossed the path of a dangerous murderer. Driving full speed for
Westhampton, hard on the trail of the missing truck, The Shadow was heading into unexpected disaster.
The chance arrival of the hard-faced man boded ill for The Shadow.
The lone trail had suited The Shadow for the present. It had promised him a chance to encounter enemies
who dealt in crime. But the encounter which The Shadow sought would be gained much sooner than he
believed.
Peril lay along The Shadow's lone trail.
CHAPTER III. THE BROKEN TRAIL
THE road from Riverport to Westhampton was a lonely highway. For miles, it followed the river gorge
between the two towns. Sharp curves impeded continual speed but the lack of traffic on the highway
partly offset that disadvantage.
The Shadow had left Riverport at ten minutes of seven. He was managing an average of fifty miles an
hour. Fifteen minutes out of Riverport had carried him slightly more than a dozen miles along his way.
Hands firmly clutching the wheel, his eyes fixed on the road ahead, The Shadow observed the contour of
the highway. Every curve was different; yet all bore one point of similarity. To the right were rugged,
towering slopes; to the left a guard rail that fringed the river bank.
The rail was one that had been built to stand a severe test. Taut wires ran between stout wooden posts,
fixed deep beside the left shoulder of the highway. In all that monotony of posts, the ordinary observer
would have seen no change. To The Shadow, however, differences were apparent.
Certain posts had weakened. Though they remained upright, there were tell-tale depressions at the base,
sure signs that freshets had washed away supporting soil. Those posts needed strengthening supports.
The Shadow made a mental note of that fact. Curiously, his observation was to serve him well before his
trip was ended.
Except for those infrequent weaknesses, the guard rail was strong enough to resist the onslaught of a
ten-ton truck. It needed to be strong. The river that lay below was deep and blackly sinister.
This gorge was narrow; its waters were slow, for the river was dammed some miles ahead. Fully thirty
feet of depth lay below the dark surface of the river.
Mile after mile, The Shadow saw no other cars. He was traveling at the highest speed that any car could
maintain along this winding road. At a fifty-mile-an-hour average, there was a chance that he might reach
Westhampton soon after the departure of the mysterious truck. Inquiries; new clues; then The Shadow
would resume pursuit. He was confident that a trail could be picked up at Westhampton.
The clock on the coupe's dashboard showed seven ten. It was the exact minute mentioned in the
hard-faced man's telephone call. Timed almost to the second, The Shadow whizzed past an obscure side
road that led upward to the right, through the ravine of a little stream.
THOUGH his headlights were pointing ahead, The Shadow was conscious of a small house nestled at
the outlet of the dirt road. His momentary glimpse gave him the impression that the house was deserted.
The impression was justified. Supposedly, that house had been vacated a month before. Tonight,
however, it was occupied. Peering eyes were stationed at a blackened upstairs window, to note The
Shadow's coupe as it whirled past. Observers saw the New York license plate.
The hard-faced man at Riverport had made a perfect estimate of the time interval. He had done better
than produce a haphazard guess. He had been familiar with the river road; he knew the maximum speed
that its curves allowed. He had assumed that whoever had departed in the coupe would be riding at the
fastest possible clip.
Gripping the wheel of the coupe, The Shadow swung hard as he finished a leftward curve. The road
swung to the right; then left again, to a jutting point that hung above the river. The turn was one that
required brakes. Safety signs showed twisted lines to indicate the sharpness of the turn. The right side of
the road was a mass of mixed rocks.
The Shadow's foot moved to the brake pedal. There it halted, momentarily. His ears had caught a
摘要：

THESALAMANDERSMaxwellGrantThispagecopyright©2001BlackmaskOnline.http://www.blackmask.com?CHAPTERI.FIREOFDOOM?CHAPTERII.THELONETRAIL?CHAPTERIII.THEBROKENTRAIL?CHAPTERIV.CROOKSAGREE?CHAPTERV.THETRAILREGAINED?CHAPTERVI.THEVOICEOFDEATH?CHAPTERVII.FOEMENOFTHEFLAMES?CHAPTERVIII.THEODDSFAIL?CHAPTERIX.THETH...

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