The Shadow 237 by Maxwell Grant

Author:Maxwell Grant
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER XI

FRIENDS OF THE ROAD

NEITHER The Shadow nor Tim Lanney would have had a chance for life, had one of them been behind the wheel of the stricken track. Only the fact that both were loose was responsible for the result that they attained. It was largely through The Shadow’s making, though Tim’s part counted heavily.

The first lift of the truck, a leftward cant, sent The Shadow past the wheel on the skiddy leather of the broad front seat. He struck against Tim as the front of the truck was coming down, but The Shadow didn’t lose the advantage of his first momentum.

He shoved the steering wheel away from him, first with his hand, next with his foot, and the strength of his effort drove Tim farther to the left.

That was when Tim participated heavily, because his weight was the thing involved. The door of the truck was flimsy, and it yielded under Tim’s unintended bash. Tim went straight out to the left step as it came up to meet him, and The Shadow followed along, for he was still shoving hard.

The somersaulting truck actually kicked the two sprawlers into the air, its step acting as the foot that delivered the boot. They were landing on the paving of the bridge as the truck catapulted over the rail. Hard jolts for both of them, but better than the one reserved for Jerry, the man still in the truck.

As the truck crashed below, The Shadow hauled Tim to his feet and dragged him toward the rail, so they could see beyond it. At first, Tim was too groggy to see the man who helped him, but by the time they reached the rail, everything was plain; indeed, too plain.

There was an explosion below and a great roar of flames lit up the gully, carrying its flare across the countryside.

It took more than the contents of the gasoline tank to fuel that mighty blaze. The truck’s cargo was responsible - those crates of varnish cans that had helped awaken The Shadow with their splash. Possibly by chance, more probably by design, Tim had happened to be transporting a highly inflammable brand of varnish.

Somewhere in the holocaust was Jerry, the modern highwayman. Tim remembered him and actually tried to climb the bridge rail to his aid. Strong hands restrained the foolhardy truck driver; looking about, Tim saw the calm face of Cranston.

“No use, Tim. He’s gone.”

“But there’s a fire extinguisher in the truck,” expressed Tim, too excited to wonder how this new friend had learned his name. “If we could only get it -”

“That would be a problem.”

A real problem. Crackles were sounding as the flames swept higher; they were licking the trees that lined the shallow creek bed. Tim could feel their scorch as he leaned from the bridge. Drawing back, he saw what Cranston pointed out: that the truck had been reduced to a skeleton.

“Jerry was on the wrong side of the truck,” remarked The Shadow. “The crash must have killed him instantly.

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