LIEUTENANT ELLIS, who had driven out to the field as quickly as he could, listened intently while Tom and Red described the news that they had heard on the radio and their efforts to reach the Dawson lodge by telephone. He agreed with the boys that the real estate man and his family might be in danger, particularly if they were unaware of the way the fires were spreading. Before giving his consent for Tom to take off and scout the area, however, he insisted on phoning the nearest forestry station, to try and find out what was known about the fires.

"It doesn't look very good," he announced as he hung up the phone. "The Forestry Service says that one of their tower men spotted the flame on the northern side of Chineewincook Mountain, but he doesn't know anything about the southern side. The Dawson lodge, if I remember correctly, is south of the mountain."

"That's right, sir," Red agreed.

"Were any other fires spotted around there?" Tom asked. Ellis shook his head. "I asked that, but no one seems to know. What bothers me is that he said that the whole area thereabouts is very dry and fires are liable to break out anywhere."

"Then you'll okay my taking the plane up to have a look around?" Tom wanted to know.

"I realize that the C.O. suspended you, Carroll, but you're the only one in town that I know about who's a pilot, so I'm lifting your suspension as of now," the officer said.

"Thanks, Lieutenant," Tom said quietly. "Even if the Dawsons aren't in any trouble, we might be able to help out the Forestry Service by giving them a report of what I find."

"That's right," Red put in. "And I'll go along with Tom so I can plot everything on a map."

"No you don't, Red. I might have to land and pick someone up, so I'll need that space," Tom said.

"Aw, Tom, don't be like that," Red protested.

"Carroll's right," Ellis declared. "He might have to set the plane down somewhere, though I doubt if there's any spot bigger than a handkerchief near the Dawson place."

"I guess you're right," Red grumbled. "But I hate to just sit around here doing nothing."

"Who said anything about sitting around? I'm going to alert the whole squadron. There's no telling what we may be in for if those fires get any worse," the officer stated.

"I think you're right, sir," Tom observed, starting for the door. "We may have a lot of work on our hands."

Tom had fueled and carefully checked the plane while he was waiting for Ellis to arrive. With a wave of the hand, he climbed into the ship and secured the compartment door.

Pressing the starter button, he watched the instruments closely as the motor came to life with a coughing roar. He taxied across the bumpy ground until he reached the end of the landing strip, then stood the plane off to one side as he revved the motor. At full throttle it purred smoothly, and he cut it back slowly. Working the stick and foot pedals, he tested the controls until he was satisfied that the ship was ready for take-off. He pushed the throttle forward, and then he swung the little plane around until its nose was pointed down the runway. Quickly gathering speed, the craft raced down the strip. In a few seconds it pulled away from the ground, headed towards Chineewincook Mountain.

Far in the distance, as the plane climbed through the still summer air, Tom spotted faint pillars of smoke that rose like twisting fingers out of the purplish haze of hills. Flying straight and level at fifteen hundred feet, he caught sight of dancing splotches of orange twinkling in the darkness of the wooded wilderness. As the L-5 beat its way through the cloudless skies, he saw that the worst fears of the state rangers were being realized: the dry forests were ripe for a holocaust. Smoldering flames touched off by summer lightning, tiny blazes kindled by breeze-borne sparks, and glowing conflagrations rising as self-consuming monuments to careless campers, were waiting only for a witless wind to fan them into fury.

At top speed Tom made straight for the southern slope of Chineewincook, below which was nestled the sprawling hunting lodge of the Dawson family. It took a little more than twenty minutes to reach the spot; and, as he approached, he followed the lone, winding road that led upward to the house. Circling overhead, he lost altitude in sharp banking turns until he was no more than five hundred feet above the terraced building.

There was a station wagon parked in front of the lodge, he noted, and the four Dawsons were busily loading objects into it. One by one, interrupting their efforts, they looked upward toward the plane and waved. They were almost ready, Tom figured, to start for home along the road that had guided him to their camp.

Zooming upward, he took the plane to a thousand feet. He had glimpsed a sizeable fire off to one side of the route as he approached, and now he scanned the landscape to make sure that the flames had not eaten their way towards the narrow highway. He fixed the spot through the twirling propeller and then nosed the plane toward it, a shallow dive taking him closer to the ground.

From somewhere, he saw, a stiff breeze had sprung up. Bending green saplings and brushwood, it was driving a cloud of black smoke before it. Worse than that, it had pushed a towering wall of flame to within a few feet of the road. In a matter of seconds, long before the Dawson car could reach the place, the single exit from the lodge would be cut off by fire.

Tom lost no time in speeding back to the lodge, at the same time carefully searching the ground for anything resembling a spot where he might land the plane. There was only one, a short, straight stretch of road that was bordered by rock-strewn fields on either side. However, a scattering of small trees along one side of the roadway ruled out even this possibility.

Once above the lodge, Tom circled first and then buzzed it in a sharp dive to attract attention. The Dawsons stood still in their tracks, all of them looking upward toward the plane. Tom leveled off and fixed the stick between his knees. Using his mapboard as an improvised desk, he wrote out a message. In it he told the family that their route out of the woods had been cut off by fire. He next asked two questions: first, did they know of any other way out of the area; second, did they have any knowledge of a place where he might land? He asked for an answer by panel display.

Hurriedly jamming the message into a container, he swooped down over the building. He hit his target, a small patch of lawn, without trouble. As he banked the plane in a wide climbing circle, he watched Ed Dawson retrieve the container, read the message and discuss it with his father.

There were signs of an argument between the real estate man and his son, for the elder Dawson excitedly waved his hands and pointed an accusing finger at Ed. But even while they were talking, Jane darted into the house and shortly afterward returned with a pile of sheets. With her mother's help, she tore them into strips, laying them lengthwise on the lawn. As Big Ed and his son wound up their talk, the latter moved in Jane's direction and began hauling the sheets out to the grass-covered terrace.

As he watched them work, Tom breathed a sigh of thankfulness. Here, once again, the CAP training was paying dividends. The two Dawsons, schooled in communications, were expertly laying out a panel reply to the plane flying above them.

"Your message acknowledged," Tom read. "Answer to both questions is negative. Advise your recommendation."

Tom's heart sank. He had been hopeful that the Dawsons would know of some path that they might take to escape the fire-blocked area, or at least that they would be aware of a patch of cleared ground in which he might set down the little plane. But their reply had clearly indicated not only their lack of such helpful knowledge but also their dependence on him.

Again he wrote out a message. This time he informed the Dawsons that he was going to make a hurried reconnaissance of the region to find out if there was any safe direction in which to head. He dropped the message container in the same spot and did not wait for an acknowledgment. Pulling back on the stick, he took the plane up another thousand feet.

On three sides the Dawson property was bordered by dense forests. There was no sign of any paths or other breaks, and in several places there were sheer cliffs that looked impossible to descend. At a few points, mostly some distance from the lodge, black smoke rose from pitch-heavy trees that were being devoured by racing flames. None was as bad as the roadside fire, but all gave warning of danger over a broad expanse of ground.

On the fourth side was Chineewincook Mountain, rearing its pine-covered slopes upward almost two thousand feet. It would not be impossible to scale this, though it would by no means be an easy ascent. But as Tom flew over the peak he saw that such a climb would be futile. On the reverse slope fires were already working their way up the mountainside and a pall of smoke was billowing skyward.

The Dawsons were cut off! At the rate at which the flames were spreading, it would just be a matter of time before the lodge itself would turn into ashes.

Desperately, now, Tom swung back. This time he made another pass over the stretch of road that he had spotted earlier. Making a quick estimate, he figured that if the trees along the edge were cut down, he would be able to land the L-5 on the narrow, dirt highway. It would be chancey, he knew, for there would be hardly any clearance coming in or taking off over the pines that ringed the rocky fields. But he had no choice. Whatever the risk, he had to take it. He was the sole hope of rescue for the Dawson family.

For the third time Tom addressed a message to the expectant family on the ground. In it he told them of his failure to discover either a way out of the area or a safe haven. In no uncertain terms he wrote that the only chance of rescue lay in his making a landing along the straight strip of narrow road, about a half mile from the lodge. To do that, he pointed out, it would be necessary for the trees along the edge of the roadway to be cut down. He then asked that they acknowledge the message and indicate their agreement with his plan.

It was Jane who laid out the panels giving an affirmative answer. Ed, Tom saw as he circled over the lodge, dashed into the building and came out lugging a large object. He and his father quickly climbed into the station wagon and started on their way. Tom followed their progress down the dusty lane, watched them stop and jump from the car, and then start felling the first of a half dozen trees with a hand power saw.

They worked fast, and the slender trees toppled one by one. As the last pine hit the ground, Dawson and his son went to work to pull the trees out into one of the fields alongside the road. That done, they got into the station wagon again, turned it about, and parked it at the point where the road entered the woods.

It was now up to Tom.

Circling over the open area at a low altitude, he scrutinized it carefully. The strip on which he intended to land appeared to be a little uneven, rising slightly in the direction of the lodge. It was long enough, but there would be a tight squeeze setting the plane down, Tom estimated. . . . He swung the nose of the ship around and headed down wind. Then he brought the plane about, into the wind, and aimed it toward the opening.

He came in at low speed, his eyes on the trees that swept by beneath him. Dropping lower and lower, he felt almost as ff he could reach out and touch the tall pines. But, nosing the ship down, he never faltered in his approach, and the open fields suddenly appeared below him. Moments later the little ship hit the roadbed, bounced lightly once . . . and settled down to a run that brought it to the end of the makeshift runway.

As he cut the motor and stepped out of the plane, Tom greeted the two Dawsons with a laconic, "Hi!"

Surprise was written on the faces of both Ed and his father when they recognized the pilot of the rescue craft. With all the grace they could master, however, they tried to express their thanks to Tom for coming to their assistance.

"I'll go back to the lodge and get Mother and Jane," Ed said.

"Are you sure you can make it all right, Boy?" Big Ed Dawson asked Tom as his son left.

Tom nodded.

"Then," the real estate man observed heavily, "Mrs. Dawson will be your first passenger."

When Ed returned with his mother and sister, Tom asked him to help swing the plane about for the take-off. He taxied the ship down the bumpy roadway and once more had it swung about to face it into the stiffening breeze. With a wink in Jane's direction, he settled back in his seat and waited for Mrs. Dawson to get aboard. Out of a corner of his eye he saw that she seemed nervous, and he turned his head away in embarrassment as she gave each member of her family a warm hug. "It'll be all right, Mother," he heard Ed say. "Tom's a fine pilot. He'll have you home in no time at all and then'll be back for the rest of US."

A moment later Tom pressed the starter button and the engine sputtered and roared. First throttling it forward, he cut it back and checked his controls. Then, with a wave to the onlookers, he headed clown the road.

There was a breeze, and the little ship lifted easily into the air. Despite his fears, Tom took the plane over the treetops with plenty of room to spare. He climbed it quickly, looking clown as he did so to note that the flames that had cut off the road were racing toward the landing area. Every minute, he decided, would be precious.

At full throttle, the L-5 cut through the skies that now were darkened with thin layers of smoke from the raging fires below. Soon he was back at the Wayfield Airport, and without pausing to circle the field he brought the plane in to a smooth landing. Waiting only for Mrs. Dawson to climb out and returning her gush of thanks with a friendly wave, he ran the plane down to the end of the runway. Then, again, he took the craft skyward and aimed for Chineewincook.

His second landing was uneventful, without even a bounce such as he had experienced on his first attempt. Big Ed Dawson was waiting with his son at the end of the road, and the two swung the tail about as soon as Tom brought the plane to a stop. He taxied back to where Jane was standing, the other two Dawsons jogging behind him. When they had pulled the ship about once more, Jane clambered aboard.

"Take this map-board," Tom called to Jane, "and plot as many fires as you see on the way home. It'll help the rangers."

Jane nodded and settled back.

As in the landing, Tom encountered no difficulty in his take-off. The ship climbed rapidly, with an even greater clearance than the first time. Once more Tom pushed the throttle forward as far as he dared, getting every ounce of pull from the roaring engine. As he passed over the inferno-like flames below, his brow furrowed with worry; the fire was moving fast. He had noticed much more smoke on the ground in the landing area on his last visit, and now he saw that a huge black cloud was settling over the region. The next landing, he figured, would be complicated by poor visibility.

Jane, like her mother, was dropped off at the runway of the airfield without ceremony. Thumb and forefinger together in the "Roger" signal, she stood to one side of the runway as Tom raced the plane along the strip to take off on his third trip.

Just as he had feared, the blazing woodland was shooting huge, dense clouds of smoke over the entire region near Chineewincook Mountain. He was anxious not to lose a second, and he made no effort to circle the landing area, though the black haze partially blotted it out and he would have preferred to make one preliminary pass over it. Instead, he nosed the ship clown sharply, so close to the treetops as to brush the wheels against a protruding limb. He brought it to the ground with a series of thuds.

Neither Ed nor his father appeared as Tom cut the motor to idling speed. Quickly jumping out of the ship, he looked back along the road and caught sight of Ed running toward him. In the distance, he saw Mr. Dawson lying on the ground.

"Father's about overcome with the smoke," Ed yelled as he drew near. "Take him next."

Together they swung the ship about, and Tom ran it down to the other end of the roadway. When he approached, Big Ed Dawson sat up, wracked by a paroxysm of coughing, red-eyed and almost purple in the face. Tom hurried out of the cabin and, as soon as he was joined by Ed, they turned the nose of the plane into the wind again.

"Take Ed with you," Mr. Dawson croaked, a spell of coughing shaking his whole body.

"You heard what I said up there, Carroll," Ed said quietly. "He's next."

"I . . . won't . . . go!" his father cried, gulping for breath.

The smoke was rolling over the fields in thick masses, and both Tom and Ed gasped as a gust of hot fumes struck their lungs. With a glance at Tom, Ed moved toward his father. Before the older man could let out a sound, his son swung from the belt and hit him squarely in the chin. Big Ed slid to the ground.

"Tell him . . . I'm sorry," Ed wheezed as he helped Tom pile his parent into the cockpit.

Tom hesitated a moment, then, clasping Ed's hand in his own, he said, "I'll be back."

He was coughing and his eyes burned as he climbed back into the plane. He wasted no time and pushed the throttle forward. The ship began slicing through the twirling, acrid smoke. A few seconds later Tom was gulping in the clearer air that he found above the fiery forests. He was able to make out little of what lay below, however, for smoke had masked most of the area. But from his quick views of ugly splotches of orange-red flames, he knew that it would not be long before all the woods surrounding the landing area would be ablaze.

Back at the airport, he had to taxi over to the hangar to get help in moving Big Ed Dawson out of the ship. The latter, now completely conscious, was in no condition to walk under his own power, and it took the combined efforts of Lieutenant Ellis and another pair of cadets to assist him to the ground. Hurriedly calling for fuel, Tom took a deep swig of cool water as he nervously waited.

He shrugged off all questions. Curtly, he directed the cadets who were gassing the ship to stop before they were half through. Seconds were precious now, he knew, and as soon as he saw that the craft was free of the fueling line, he started the engine. A hasty run-up check was all that he made; then he pointed the plane down the strip and pulled it upward toward the blackening skies.

He dropped as low as he dared in making his approach to the roadway strip; but when he drew near, a wall of flame shot up to block his way. Quickly pulling back on the stick, he zoomed the ship skyward, feeling the heat of the air that passed beneath him. Without hesitation, he decided to make a downwind approach, dangerous at any time but doubly so in the small smoke-filled bit of land that was his target. Banking sharply, he dropped the nose of the ship down, pointing it toward the patch of clearing that he had spotted momentarily through the thick black pall.

A tree reared up in front of him and he yanked back the stick just in time, almost stalling the L-5 in the pull-up. Banking sharply, he came in again. This time, somehow, the ship hit the road, bouncing and thudding until he thought it would fall apart with the blows. Rolling downhill, the plane braked to a stop only a few feet from the trees that marked one end of the clearing.

Hot, blistering air pressed in against Tom as he clambered from the ship. His throat burned and his nostrils felt raw. At first he saw no sign of Ed. Then, as he moved to grab hold of the tail surface and swing the plane about, he saw young Dawson trying to rise to his feet, off to one side of the road. Tom ran across the short distance that separated them, gasping and choking while the pungent smoke clawed at his lungs and scorched his eyes. Without a word, he helped Ed up, supporting him as they stumbled toward the ship.

In spite of his condition, Ed threw his weight behind Tom's to pull the tail about. But he needed help to get aboard the ship, for he almost fell as he tried to climb into the cabin. Still coughing, Tom secured the compartment door and then swung himself into the pilot's seat. As he did so he felt a gust of terrific heat and, looking over his shoulder, he saw a sheet of flame advancing toward the edge of the wood. He needed no further urging. Hastily he pushed forward on the throttle. The sturdy ship sped down the rough roadway, bounced several times and then tore itself from the ground.

It rose swiftly, leaving behind it the consuming flames that were eating their way across the tortured woodland. Higher and higher Tom took the plane, until the air was sweet and cool and the fires were small red splashes in the dark curtain that covered the land. He felt a trifle dizzy, and he shook his head to clear it while he drank in the pure wind that whipped through the open window. Then, with the toy houses of Wayfield coming into sight, he began his descent.

A few minutes later the wheels of the D5 lightly touched the ground. Tom taxied up to the hangar and cut the motor. Leaning forward, he rested his face in his arms. Tears flooded his aching eyes. They were caused, he told himself, by the smoke that he still could taste.