ATTACKED BY COWBOYS.
The Smoky City, with its inky smoke canopy, bluff-bordered rivers and
distant heights crowned with beautiful residences, was soon left far
behind. But for a long time the boys flew high above veritable gridirons
of railroad yards crowded with busy freight trains and puffing yard
locomotives. Every one of the engines gave them a screeching greeting as
they soared steadily along far above them.
But they were not alone in the air. The Slade machine was close behind
them, with his assistant at the wheel. McArthur’s dirigible, too, was
off a few minutes after the boys took the air. The three racers flew
onward with no perceptible difference in the distances between them.
Each seemed to be grimly holding its own. At Steubenville, Ohio, the
boys struck the Ohio river and flew above its course as far as Ashland,
where they crossed the border line of the state into Kentucky.
In forty-eight hours more, having allowed ample time for rests and
engine adjustments, they arrived at Nashville, Tenn., having passed the
border line of the state a few hours before. For several hours they had
not seen the other racers, but at Nashville they learned that Slade’s
aeroplane had arrived four hours ahead of them, having therefore gained
one hour in actual time.
The gain had probably occurred while the boys were delayed at a small
town near the Kentucky border fitting new spark plugs, those they used
having become badly carbonized by their hard service. They spent little
time in the beautiful capital of Tennessee on the banks of the historic
Cumberland river. The crowds pestered them to such an extent that they
were anxious to hurry on as soon as possible. An examination of the
engine, however, showed that it was in need of considerable adjustment,
and old Mr. Joyce was compelled to spend several hours over it. The
gyroscopic balancer likewise was in need of having its bearings attended
to. Slade seemed to have better luck, for his party left Nashville two
hours ahead of the Boy Aviators. The start of the _Despatch_ craft was
closely followed by that of McArthur’s dirigible, carrying a large gas
supply. The extra weight had been compensated for by ripping out a large
part of the cabin and cutting down every ounce carried, so far as it was
possible to do so without imperiling the ship.
However, when they finally did take the air from the meadow on the banks
of the Cumberland in which they had camped, the boys had the
satisfaction of knowing that their craft had had a thorough overhauling.
The auto, also, had had new tires fitted and its engine overhauled.
The journey across the rolling plains of Arkansas, skirting the Ozarks
to the south, on across the vast levels of Oklahoma, fertile with crops
and dotted with thrifty homesteads and small frontier towns, was made
without incident. One night the boys found themselves camped on the
banks of the Canadian river, not very far from the town of Bravo, in the
northwest of the great Panhandle of Texas. For two days, now, they had
not seen either of their competitors, and had no idea of where either of
them were, though at infrequent opportunities he had in the wild country
through which they were now traveling, Billy had tried several times to
ascertain by telegraph some word of their whereabouts.
The heat was, as Billy said, enough to fry the horn-toads that crawled
about on the vast level that stretched, quivering in the torrid sun
rays, as far as the eye could reach on every side of the boys’
camping-place. Fortunately they had selected a site beneath an old
sycamore tree, which gave them some scanty shade. High against the
blazing sky a few turkey-buzzards wheeled, doubtless watching the camps
with speculative eyes to ascertain if they were all alive.
But on this latter point there could have existed no doubt in the minds
of any human onlookers. The clink-clink of hammers and drills, as the
boys worked over their engine with old Mr. Joyce superintending, while
Billy Barnes and Lathrop were actively employed loading the auto with a
camping kit, gave the camp an appearance of great life and bustle. As
for Bart Witherbee, he was at his favorite occupation of cooking. He had
shot some young jack-rabbits a few hours before, and was now composing a
stew.
“I didn’t know jack-rabbits were good to eat,” exclaimed Billy, when the
miner had brought them into camp.
“Young ones is,” explained the plainsman, “but keep away from the
elderly jack-rabbits.”
Suddenly Billy, who had looked from his task for the fiftieth time to
remark that it was hot, noticed quite a cloud of dust swirling toward
the adventurers across the prairie.
“Gee, here comes a whirlwind!” he exclaimed, pointing. The others
looked, too.
“Maybe it’s a cyclone,” suggested Harry.
Old Witherbee placed his hand over his eyebrows and peered long and
earnestly at the rapidly approaching cloud of yellow dust.
“Whatever is it?” asked Frank.
“Somethin’ that I’m afeard is goin’ ter make it mighty uncomfortable for
us,” exclaimed Witherbee, with a tone of anxiety in his voice.
“Mighty uncomfortable, how? Will it blow the auto away?” asked Billy.
“No, youngster, but it may blow us up; that cloud yonder is a bunch of
skylarking cowboys, and they’re coming right for us.”
“Will they kill us?” asked Billy anxiously.
“No, I don’t think it’ll be as bad as that; though they git mighty onery
sometimes. Don’t you boys give ’em no back talk, and maybe we’ll get out
all right.”
The rapid advance of the approaching cowboys could now be heard. Their
ponies’ hoofs could also be seen as they flashed in and out under the
cloud of dust.
Suddenly there was a terrific volley of yells, and, as the cavalcade
drew rein, the cloud rolled away and the boys found they were surrounded
by forty or fifty wild-looking fellows, all yelling and shouting. Some
of them had revolvers and were firing them in the air. The din was
terrific.
“Throw up yer hands, yer Scanderhovian bunch of tenderfeet,” shouted the
leader, a big man on a buckskin pony, whose legs were incased, despite
the intense heat, in a huge, hairy pair of bearskin “chaps.”
The boys all elevated their hands, and old man Joyce and Bart Witherbee
hastened to follow their example.
“Where’s this yar sky schooner yer goin’ a-sailin’ around in, scaring
our cattle and driving the critters plumb crazy?” he demanded angrily.
“If you mean our aeroplane, there it is,” said Frank, indicating the
machine.
“Wall, there was two of them went over here yisterday, and all the beef
critters on the Bar X range is plum stampeded all over the per-arie.
We’re goin’ ter stop this, an’ we might as well begin right now. Come
on, boys, shoot the blame thing full o’ holes and put a few in ther
choo-choo wagin while yer at it.”
The situation was critical indeed.
The boys saw no way of saving their aeroplane, and to add to their
troubles they had been informed that their two rivals were in front of
them.
Frank alone retained his presence of mind. He saw that only by a trick
could they regain their safety from the desperate men into whose power
they had fallen.
“Did you ever see an aeroplane before?” he asked of the leader.
“No, I never did,” replied the other; “why?”
“Well, you seem to have a pretty dry part of the country out here, and I
guess a little rain would do it no harm.”
“That’s right, stranger, you never spoke a truer word; but what in
thunder has that got to do with yer blamed scaryplane, or whatever you
call it, scaring all our beef critters away?”
“I am very sorry for your misfortune, Mr.—Mr.——”
“Rattlesnake Ike is my name, with no blame ‘Mister’ on it, young
tenderfoot,” growled the other.
“Well, Rattlesnake Ike, we can make rain.”
“What?” roared the whole assemblage.
“We can make rain,” calmly repeated the boy, “with that aeroplane.”
“Wall, now, stranger, how kin yer do that—tell us,” demanded the leader
of the cowboys, leaning forward on the bow of his saddle, deeply
interested.
“Well, you’ve heard that explosions near the sky will concentrate the
moisture, thus causing it to condense in a copious rainfall,” declaimed
Frank pompously, putting in all the long words he could think of.
“Hump—wall,” dubiously remarked the cowboy, scratching his head, “I
dunno as I hev, but you seem ter have it all down pat.”
“That’s what we’ve been doing with our aeroplane,” went on Frank,
“making rain. Haven’t we?” he turned to Witherbee questioningly. The
miner at once saw what he was driving at.
“Sure,” said the old miner. “Why, pardners, down in Arkansaw they had
forgotten what rain looked like till we came along. We made it pour for
three days.”
“And that scaryplane does it?”
“Well, we go up in it and then fire bombs from this rain-gun.”
Frank indicated the searchlight as he spoke.
“Wall, I’d sure like ter see that,” said the leader. “How about it,
boys?”
“Let’s see what they kin do; but if yer don’t make it rain, strangers,
we’ll string you all up ter that sycamore tree,” decided one of the
group.
They all chorused assent, and Frank and Harry at once got into the
machine.
“Hand me some rain bombs, Billy,” said Frank.
Billy Barnes reached into the tonneau and produced some blue flares.
These he handed to Frank.
“Take care they don’t go off, Frank,” he said solemnly.
“Yes; you recollect them twenty fellers as was killed in St. Looey,”
warned old Witherbee solemnly.
“Say, strangers, are them there things dangerous?” asked the cowboy
leader.
“Well, there’s enough dynamite in them to blow that river there clean
into the next county,” rejoined Frank, “but don’t be scared, we won’t
drop them.”
“Get into the auto when we are well up,” Frank whispered rapidly to
Billy, while the cowboys exchanged awed glances.
“Now, gentlemen,” he went on aloud, “get your umbrellas ready, for
pretty soon there’s going to be some big rain.”
The aeroplane started up while the cowboys yelled and whooped. It had
reached a height of about two hundred feet, and was circling above their
heads, when Harry suddenly lighted one of the fizzing blue flares; at
the same instant Billy, followed by the others, leaped into the auto.
“Hey, stop that!” yelled the cowboy leader, but at the same moment he
broke off with a yell of terror.
“Look out for the dynamite bomb!” yelled Harry, as he dropped the
flaming blue flare over the side of the aeroplane, fairly on top of the
gang of cowboys.
“Ride for your lives, boys!” shouted the leader of the cowboys, as the
flaming light dropped, “she’s goin’ ter bust.”
They didn’t need any urging, but fled with wild cries.
By the time the cattlemen realized they had been tricked, the auto was
away on the prairie, speeding on toward the west in a cloud of dust,
while the aeroplane was far out of range.