WIRELESS.
“What is to be done?” It was Frank who spoke, and there was a note of
despair in his voice.
The boys had finished breakfast with what appetite they could and were
seated on the porch of the hotel discussing plans. It seemed impossible
that they could get away from Gitalong, as, without the escort of the
auto to carry the necessary supplies for an emergency, it would have
been futile to think of navigating above the desert in an aeroplane. The
dirigible, of course, could carry her own supplies.
“Wall, now, thar ain’t no use givin’ up hope,” consoled Bart. “Why, once
when I was up a tree with a b’ar at ther foot of it, I thought I’d never
git away, an’ what do you think happened—why, ther b’ar jes’ turned up
his toes and died.”
Even this anecdote of Bart’s pard did not cheer the boys up, however,
and in a disconsolate group they walked down the street to look over the
_Golden Eagle_, which still stood where she had been left. Quite a crowd
was clustered about the machine, and as the boys came up a hail of
questions was poured in on them.
One of the questioners, a wild-looking fellow, with long, drooping black
mustache and a wide-brimmed hat, round the band of which were nailed
silver dollars in a row, was particularly curious. After asking
questions about every part of the machine, he started in on the
wireless. Indicating the aerials he remarked:
“Say, that’s a right pert little conniption, ain’t it? Kin you really
send messages out sky doodling through ther blessed atmosphere with it?”
“We can if we’ve got any one to send them to,” rejoined Harry; “but I
don’t suppose there’s any one around here who has a wireless outfit.”
“Wall, now, that’s jes’ whar yer wrong,” was the astonishing reply.
“There’s an old feller, I reckon he’s crazy or suthin’, anyhow he used
ter be some sort of electrical engineer. Wall, sir, on top of his shack
at White Willow I’m blamed if he ain’t got things like them wires that’s
strung on top of your air ship. Yes, sir, an’ claims he can sind out
messages, too, if thar was any one but coyotes and rattlers to git ’em.”
“Whereabouts is White Willow?” asked Frank interestedly.
“Why, it’s right near to Pintoville,” was the answer; “a piece this side
of it, I rickin.”
“Pintoville,” exclaimed Frank; “that’s where Luther Barr said he was
stopping. Say, boys, let’s send out a wireless to White Willow and see
if we can raise the inventor there and ascertain if our auto passed
through.”
“But it was late at night. They would all have been in bed,” objected
Billy.
“Well, it’s worth trying, anyhow, so here goes.” Frank sat down at the
key of the _Golden Eagle’s_ wireless, and began tapping out “White
Willow—White Willow—Willow—White Willow,” till his hand ached.
“No good, I guess,” he said, discouraged, as, after quite a time, no
response to his call came.
“I always thought that old feller at White Willow was loco,” remarked
one of the crowd.
Suddenly, however, Frank held up his hand.
“He’s answering,” he cried.
Sure enough, over the wires came the question:
“Here’s White Willow. Who wants White Willow? For five years I’ve been
trying to get a call here, and no one ever came. Who are you?”
“We are the Boy Aviators,” tapped back Frank, while the miners and
cowboys gazed in awe at the blue flame ripping and crackling across its
gap. “Have you seen two autos pass through White Willow?”
“They have not passed through. They are here now,” was the astonishing
response.
The boys saw Frank jump to his feet with an excited yell of “Hurray!
We’ll get them yet.”
“He’s gone daffy, too,” exclaimed the men in the group about the
aeroplane.
“Are you crazy, Frank?” seriously demanded Billy.
“The auto’s in White Willow!” shouted Frank, slapping the boy on the
back.
“What?”
“That’s right. The old wireless man—I mean the wireless old man—no, I
don’t—oh, what I do mean is that we’ve got to get over there in jig
time. Come on, Harry, climb aboard. Bart, we’ll need you, too.”
“What, me git in that thar thing?” dubiously responded the miner. “No,
sir, I’ve walked like a Christian all my days on the earth, and I ain’t
goin’ to tempt Providence by flying at this time of life.”
“Hullo! hullo! what’s all this?” came a deep voice, as a big man elbowed
his way through the crowd. “What’s all this about flying?”
“It’s the sheriff,” called some one.
In the meantime the big man had made his way to Frank’s side as he
leaned over testing the gasolene tanks and the amount of water there was
in the radiator receptacle.
“Here, young feller,” he exclaimed, “I don’t know if it’s legal to go
flyin’ aroun’ in this county. Hav yer got a permit or suthin’?”
“No,” replied Frank; “but if you are the sheriff there are some of the
worst men in your jurisdiction right in White Willow now.”
“The blue heavens, you say. Who air they, young feller?”
“Wild Bill Jenkins, Hank Higgins and Noggy Wilkes.”
“Why, thar’s a reward for Wild Bill Jenkins!” exclaimed the sheriff.
“Well, you can get it if you hurry over thar.”
“Hold on a minute, young feller. How do I know you ain’t fooling me?”
“Because I was talking to a man in White Willow a few minutes ago.”
“What’s that? Say, be careful how yer string me.”
“I certainly was, and he told me that the men we are in search of came
there in two autos last night.”
“Say, stranger, the heat’s gone to yer head, ain’t it?”
“Not at all. You’ve heard of wireless?”
“Yes; but that’s all a fake, ain’t it?”
“If you’ll jump in and ride with us to White Willow I’ll soon show you
how much of a fake it is,” rejoined the boy.
“What! jump in that thar wind wagon? Why, boy, I’ve got a wife and
family to look arter. If I went skyhopping aroun’ in that thar
loose-jointed benzine broncho I might break my precious neck.”
“I’ll guarantee your neck,” spoke up Harry.
“Say, boys, ef thar sheriff don’t want ter go, I’ll go along with yer.
Thar’s $25,000 reward fer Wild Bill Jenkins, an’ I’d jes’ as soon take a
chance ter git thar money. Giv me yer warrant, sheriff, an’ I’ll serve
it fer yer and split ther reward.”
The speaker was a wiry little cowboy, apparently just in off the range,
for he held by the reins a small buckskin broncho.
“What’s that, Squainty Bill?” bellowed the sheriff. “I allow Tom Meade
ain’t going ter allow the perogatives of sheriff tuk away frum him by no
sawed-off bit of a sagebrush chawing, jackrabbit of a cattle rustler.
Come on, boys, show me how you git aboard this yer atmospheric ambler of
yourn, and we’ll git after Wild Bill Jenkins.”
The boys soon helped the redoubtable Tom Meade into the chassis, and
while the other lads held the machine back Frank shouted for a clear
road. He didn’t get it till he opened up the exhaust on the engine, and
they were roaring like a battery of gatling guns going into action. Then
he got it in a minute. There were four runaways and five cases of heat
prostration right there.
“Let go,” shouted Frank.
“Hey! hold on, young feller,” cried the sheriff, starting to scramble
out. Harry seized him just in time, for the _Golden Eagle_ shot upward
like an arrow under the full power of her hundred-horse engine.
“Say, young tenderfeet, Tom Meade ain’t no coward; but no more of this
fer me if I ever git out of this alive,” gasped the sheriff.
“Oh, you’ll get used to it in a minute and enjoy it,” laughed Harry.
“Say, Frank, muffle those exhausts, will you? They make so much racket
you can’t hear yourself think.”
Frank cut in on the muffler, and instantly the noise sank to the soft
droning purr of the perfectly working engine.
“Wall, if this don’t beat lynching horse thieves,” remarked the sheriff
admiringly as the aeroplane rushed through the air. He was much
reassured by the absence of noise that had ensued when the muffler came
into action.
“You’ll have to be our guide, sheriff,” said Frank suddenly. “Where do I
steer for White Willow?”
“Wait a minute, young feller! I’m all flabbergasted. Ah, now I’ve got
it—aim right for that thar dip in the Saw-buck foothills. That’s it,
and when you open up old Baldy between it and Bar Mountain, then you’re
right on a line for it.”
In a few minutes Frank sighted the peaks named, and following
directions, they soon saw a huddle of huts dumped down on the prairie a
short distance from them.
“That’s White Willow,” said the sheriff.
“But there isn’t a tree round it, white or any other color,” objected
Harry.
“I reckon that’s why they called it White Willow,” was the rejoinder,
“so as folks lookin’ fer shade could take the mental treatment.”
As they neared the little settlement, beyond which lay some rugged
foothills honeycombed with old mine shafts, the boys saw an automobile
full of men dash out of the place and speed off westward across the
plain.
“There they go!” shouted the sheriff. “Consarn ’em, they’ve given us the
slip.”
“Not this time!” exclaimed Frank, as the auto came to a sudden stop.
Something had evidently gone wrong with it.