Kicking the gears into neutral, Doc switched off the motor. The machine, going seventy, would roll a mile on this road. After the engine died, the call of night birds was audible. The tires buzzed on the pavement.

Before his momentum was gone, Doc wheeled off the road into a brushy lane. He left the car masked by a thicket of swamp maples.

Out on the bayou, a tug whistle honked stentoriously. Through the trees, Doc saw the tug was escorting a raft of logs fully half a mile long. Evidently they were being rushed to some mill in time for the day's work.

But they were not headed for Worldwide Sawmills No. 3! The plant was shut down!

A soundless wraith in the roadside brush, Doc reconnoitered.

Judging from appearance, the sawmill had been shut down about a month. It was an expensive plant, too. The capacity must have been nearly a hundred thousand board feet. Storage sheds for dry lumber were large enough to hold supplies of twenty million or so board feet.

It was obvious these sheds were nearly empty! That explained it! The Gray Spider's men were selling off the lumber from the dry sheds.

The plant was surrounded by a barbed-wire fence of surprising height. The steel poles extended twenty feet above the ground.

Doc started to run lightly up the fence. Halfway to the top, he suddenly released his grip and dropped to the ground.

"A narrow squeak!" he told himself sagely.

Finding a wet limb, he tossed it against the upper part of the fence. The twig came in contact with two of the barbed strands.

There was a sputtering burst of unholy green fire. Smoking, the twig fell to earth.

The fence carried a high-voltage electric current!

Only the sharpness of Doc's eyes in noting that the wires ran through insulators at the steel posts had saved him from death by electrocution!

AROUND the fence, the bronze giant worked. He found a tree. It had one branch which extended beyond the electrified fence.

A great leap launched Doc's powerful form several feet up the tree. He ran on up as easily as a squirrel. He worked out on the branch, balancing like a tight-rope walker.

It was a full thirty feet to the ground. Yet great muscles cushioned his drop until it seemed he had hardly more than stepped off a chair.

Doc's golden eyes were alert. He knew this was the most dangerous moment of his entrance. If there was a guard, it was likely the fellow would see him.

He was right.

An eye of flame batted from behind a dry kiln. It licked so rapidly it was an ugly glow. Bullets passing Doc's head made a ringing sound like a nail tapping against a bottle. Then came the tumbling gobble of a machine gun.

Doc flattened against the ground. He moved with a bewildering speed. His bronze skin and dark clothing blended surprisingly with the earth.

The gunner stopped firing. He had completely lost track of his target He stepped out into the moonlight He held his weapon ready. It was not one of the submachine or "Tommy" guns firing .45-caliber pistol cartridges, but a regulation aircraft type gun shooting the big cartridges. It was harnessed to a wide leather belt about the guard's middle so he could handle the powerful recoil.

"Eet's de bronze guy!" bellowed the fellow. "Hee's over de fence!"

"Non, non!"

called another monkeylike member of the Cult of the Moccasin. "Hees could nevair find dis place!"

"Mebbe so—but he done be in here right now!"

The second man came running. He vaulted a row of live rollers, a conveyor formerly used to move sawed lumber to the kilns.

A mighty bronze arm flashed up from the shadowy side of the conveyor. It pulled the man down. A piercing scream tore from his lips.

The gunner, hearing that scream, but not seeing what had happened because he was looking elsewhere at the instant, ran over. He took one look on the other side of the conveyor.

He turned pale as though his heart had started pumping whitewash.

His companion lay there, crimson spilling slowly from the corners of his open mouth. The man was only unconscious, but the gunner took it for granted he was dead.

He let out a howl that rivaled the one he had just heard. He tore full speed for one of the storage sheds which still held dry lumber. He considered it impossible that anything of flesh and blood could have moved from the spot under the tree to the conveyor with such swiftness. And without being seen?

He couldn't fight a bronze ghost!

HE dived into the great shed. The interior was rather dark. Rough, dry lumber was here. The piles were fully sixteen feet high. Back into the labyrinth, the scared swampman worked.

He thought he heard a noise behind. He whirled wildly with his gun. But he saw nothing to alarm.

"Vat's wrong weeth yo'?" came a harsh whisper.

The gunner gulped his relief. This was the voice of one of his own evil kind.

"A debbil!" he gulped. "A bronze debbil man! Heem move like cloud that ees tie to rabbit's tail!"

"A debbil?" The other voice was muffled.

"Yo' bat!" The gunner shuddered.

It was darker than the inside of an owl here in the rough-dry shed.

"Me—I don' hear nottin'!" declared the other man.

The gunner licked his lips. He couldn't hear anything, either.

"Yo' don' nevair hear dat debbil man!" he muttered. "Say, vat yo' out here for? Boss ees say fo' ever'body stay outta sight, except for us two on guard!"

"Me—I come out get drink," said the other shortly. "I'm dang if l can find way back."

"Ho, yo' lost?"

"Oui!

I tell yo' I'm dang if I can find way back, ain't I?"

The gunner gave a harsh snort.

"Ho, de place ees in middle of de pile right yere!"

"De one yo' leanin' on?"

"Oui!

Dat ees right!"

The next instant, a lumber pile seemed to fall on the gunner—except that it was bronze in hue and delivered paralyzing blows with great, powerful fists.

Just before the gunner went down, senseless, he realized what had befallen him.

He hadn't been talking to one of his fellows. He had been conversing with the bronze "debbil!"

Doc had simply imitated the swampman's dialect in order to learn where the kidnaped victims were being held. The spot was inside one of the great lumber piles!

DOC now did a peculiar thing. He depressed the firing lever of the aircraft type machine gun belted to the monkey man's middle. The weapon spewed flame, fumes, and copronickel slugs. The terrific din made in the narrow space between the lumber piles was like two bolts of thunder fighting.

Doc released the firing lever.

"Got heem!" he yelled, imitating the polyglot, of the swamp speech.

A soaring leap took him up some feet on the sheer side of a lumber stack. He clung there to a board that projected hardly more than a quarter of an inch.

Below him, the apparently solid side of the lumber pile opened outward. Sounds told him what had happened. It was too dark to see anything.

"Vat ees eet?" called a voice. "Who ees yo' got?"

It was right under Doc! The speaker had thrust his head out of the lumber pile.

One of Doc's mighty hands floated down. It fished. It found a head.

The victim emitted one faint, low sound like a chicken that had been stepped on. Then his head collided with the side of the lumber pile, and he hung loose and unconscious.

Doc let him fall. He whipped inside the lumber pile.

A flashing from within spiked a narrow beam. The glare found Doc. It lost him as he moved swiftly. The man with the light fired a revolver, then gritted curses because he had missed the mark.