THE RACE IN THE CLOUDS.
The words were scarcely spoken when, from the cliffs above them, came
the familiar muffled purr of the gasoline engine.
Instantly a look of hope flashed into Dick’s face as he quickly
turned his head upward. Scott Randolph had not yet departed. He might
be stopped--must be stopped--and induced to return and release his
prisoner. He could not possibly realize what an awful thing he was
doing.
The humming increased; there was that same rustling, creaking sound
which had attracted their first sight of the aëroplane, and then the
great black shape appeared slowly and majestically from among the
mountains.
Dick placed his hands trumpetwise to his mouth.
“Randolph!” he shouted at the top of his voice. “Come back! You must
come back! It is I--Merriwell. You must not leave that man there!
Randolph! Randolph!”
His voice rang out clearly on the still night air, and the echoes came
back mockingly from the gloomy, towering cliffs. But Scott Randolph
paid no heed. The course of the black aëroplane did not waver by
so much as a hair’s breadth as it sped on with rapidity increasing
momentum, presently vanishing to the northward.
Dick dropped his hands despairingly at his sides.
“What a monster,” he exclaimed. “What an inhuman monster! I wouldn’t
have believed it possible.”
“Isn’t there something we can do?” Buckhart asked. “We just can’t stand
here and let that fellow suffocate. Don’t you suppose there’s some way
of finding the spring? Or we might tear down the wall.”
Though he spoke eagerly, there was not much conviction in his voice.
“By the time we’d found a way into the house the man would be dead,”
Dick answered. “We couldn’t tear down the wall in time. No Randolph is
the only one who can save him. He must be brought back; but how--how to
do it?”
He was thinking rapidly. There must be way--some way. But there was so
little time.
Suddenly he gave a quick exclamation.
“I’ve got it! By Jove, I’ve got it! Come along--quick! There isn’t a
second to lose.”
He turned and flew toward the trail as fast as he could get over the
ground, with Buckhart close at his heels. Into the car he sprang and
started the engine.
“Never mind the lights!” he cried, as Brad hesitated. “Jump in--quick!”
The Texan leaped up beside him, and a moment later the _Wizard_ was
hitting the high places on Bonnet Trail, heading away from Denver.
To the bewildered Westerner it seemed as though they had scarcely
started before Dick jammed on the emergency and leaped from the car. He
darted up the steep, rocky slope, Brad still keeping close behind him.
At last a glimmering of what his friend meant to do flashed into the
Texan’s mind and turned his blood cold.
“Say, pard,” he gasped. “You’re--not going--to monkey with--that
airship?”
“I’ve got to!” came through Merriwell’s gritted teeth. “It’s the only
way.”
There was silence for a brief space as they climbed rapidly.
“But you’ll be killed,” Buckhart panted in an unsteady voice. “You’ve
never run one in your life.”
Dick laughed.
“Don’t worry, old fellow,” he said. “It isn’t as bad as that. I may not
catch Randolph, but I learned enough about the thing this morning to
keep myself from being killed--I hope.”
A moment later they burst through the bushes and Dick gave a sigh of
relief as the shadowy bulk of the aëroplane loomed before him.
“I wasn’t quite sure whether Holton had used it or not,” he said,
hurrying toward it. “Now, Brad, let’s get busy. Just hold a match to
that burner while I turn on the prestolite.”
The next instant the bright light blazed forth, and Dick proceeded
methodically to prepare for flight. He passed his hands swiftly over
the steering levers to make sure which was which. Then he turned
on the gas and plugged into the coil. Setting spark and throttle
experimentally, he started the engine. She pounded a little at first,
but he quickly pulled down the throttle a trifle and soon had her
running smoothly.
That done, he pushed the lever governing the horizontal rudder forward.
The vertical lever he left upright.
Swiftly he thought over Holton’s instructions. There was nothing more
to be done, and, with a last look at the engine, which was running
perfectly, he climbed into the seat.
For a second he sat there motionless. It must be confessed that his
pulse beat rapidly, and he felt an odd, unpleasant tightening at his
throat as he realized what he was about to attempt.
Then the thought of Holton, slowly smothering in that air-tight room,
made him press his lips tightly together as his left hand reached out
and closed over the steering lever. The propeller in front of him was
revolving swiftly with a whirring sound, and it seemed as though he
could feel the aëroplane tugging gently at the anchoring rope, as if it
were anxious to be off.
“Loosen the rope, Brad, and give me a good, running shove!” Merriwell
said quietly.
The Texan stifled with an effort an almost irresistible impulse to drag
his chum off the seat and prevent him forcibly from going to what he
considered almost certain death. Then he made a last appeal.
“Dick, you ought not to do this,” he said, in a low voice. “It’s
madness!”
“I must, old fellow,” Merriwell returned quietly.
Somehow the confidence in Merriwell’s voice seemed to put heart into
the big Texan.
Turning, he walked to the rear of the machine and slipped the hook
of the anchor rope out of the ring. Then he took a good hold of the
framework and ran forward, pushing the aëroplane before him.
As it rose with a long, sweeping glide, Dick caught his breath suddenly.
For an instant he seemed as though he were standing still and that the
earth was dropping swiftly away from him--dropping, and at the same
time rushing backward. He wanted to look back at Buckhart, but he did
not dare. It was as though the machine was poised in so fine a balance
that the least motion on his part would upset the equilibrium.
The big Texan was left standing in the centre of the clearing, his
hands clenched so tightly that the nails cut into the flesh, his face
white and drawn, with great beads of perspiration standing out on his
forehead, his whole frame trembling like a leaf. As he watched with
a strained and breathless eagerness, the aëroplane soared upward and
away, carrying the best friend he had in the world swiftly out of sight
in that perilous race through the darkness for a human life.
It took but a moment for Dick to recover his coolness and presence of
mind. Then he realized that he was headed in quite the wrong direction.
Instinctively he felt that it might not be safe to attempt a turn
with the monoplane still gliding upward, so very slowly he drew the
horizontal lever toward him until he was going nearly on a level. Then
he clasped the vertical lever and pushed it forward, little by little.
Luckily there was scarcely any wind, and the aëroplane responded
instantly by turning in a wide, majestic circle. As soon as the
propeller was headed northward, he pulled the lever back into the
upright position, with a sigh of satisfaction. So far, there had been
not the slightest hitch.
Presently he noticed that the monoplane was steadily increasing
in speed, but somehow, this did not trouble him in the least. He
was rapidly gaining confidence in himself and in the strange air
craft, which was momentarily proving herself so much more steady and
controllable than he had ever imagined she could be.
Then, too, there was an extraordinary sense of exhilaration in that
rapid flight through the night air. A delicious feeling of lightness,
of buoyancy unlike anything he had ever known. And stranger than all
else was the amazing lack of fear. It did not seem as though he could
possibly fall, or if he did, he felt that he would float to earth with
the lightness of a thistledown.
He leaned forward and deflected the powerful searchlight, but he
could see nothing. He must have gone considerably higher than he had
realized, and promptly he pushed back the horizontal lever.
The result was startling. The monoplane gave a swift downward plunge
which nearly threw him from his seat, so unexpected was it. With a
jerk, he thrust the lever forward, and the craft slowly regained its
equilibrium and began an upward glide.
A little experimenting showed him the danger of dropping too suddenly,
and he soon discovered how to reach a lower level by a series of short
gradual glides, instead of too abrupt a descent.
After a little he tried the wonderfully powerful searchlight again
and was relieved when he found that the earth was clearly visible. He
must have been at an elevation of little more than a thousand feet,
and as he swept along at the speed of an express train, the plains and
isolated farms flitted by under him with the silent, uncanny unreality
of a dream.
Then he flashed the light ahead, but could see nothing of Randolph’s
aëroplane. He increased the speed a little, and presently he foolishly
raised his head above the wind shield. It cut his skin like alcohol
from an atomizer on a raw surface and made him draw quickly back into
shelter again.
“Not for mine!” he muttered. “A little more of that would flay a fellow
alive.”
He shot the searchlight before him and this time the powerful rays fell
on something in the air far ahead of him--a black, indefinite shape,
barely within the range of the reflector. His heart leaped joyfully.
“Randolph!” he muttered. “I’m gaining!”
Almost before he could realize it the black air craft leaped into vivid
relief, he could distinguish clearly every rod, almost every tiny wire,
even the white face of Randolph shown clear in the bright light. Then
the black monoplane flashed by him with throbbing engine and was gone.
“Great Cæsar!” he gasped in amazement. “He’s going back! What does that
mean?”
His first natural impulse was to turn swiftly as he might have done in
a motor car, but he caught himself in time and remembered the need of
extreme caution.
First pulling down the speed of the engine, he moved the vertical lever
slowly, and executed a wide, graceful curve. Once headed southward, he
increased the speed and started on the return journey at a rate that
made the air hum.
What could be the cause of this sudden change on the part of Scott
Randolph? Was it possible that he had relented and was voluntarily
going back to release Holton? Had he come to a full realization of
the awful thing he had done? Merriwell sincerely hoped so, but he did
not relax his vigilance in the least. He meant to follow the other
aëroplane to the bitter end, and his searchlight still shot its bright
rays straight ahead as he strained his eyes to catch another glimpse of
the shadowy craft.
Before long he saw the lights of Denver far in the distance, but on his
right. At once he throttled down on the engine and swerved to the west
a little. In returning, he had gone too far east. When he was finally
headed in the right direction, he throttled the engine still further
and turned the flashlight earthward.
In an instant he had his bearings and shut off all power. The propeller
slowly ceased its revolutions, and the aëroplane, with horizontal
rudder depressed a trifle, glided downward.
Randolph’s aëroplane was nowhere in sight, but the bright gleam of
light from the door of the house, showed Merriwell that something
out of the way had happened, and he resolved to waste no time, but
drop down there. He landed in fair shape, but he had not calculated on
the retained velocity of the monoplane, and the craft rushed forward
on its light wheels, striking against the front of the house with a
splintering crash which threw Dick headforemost out of his seat to the
ground.
He was up in an instant. Running into the hall, he dashed up the
stairs. The first person that met his eager gaze was Bert Holton, lying
on a couch in the upper hall, gasping painfully for breath. Then,
standing by the open door of the air-tight room, he saw Scott Randolph,
his face pale, but seeming otherwise cool and collected.
“I’m very glad you’ve come, Merriwell,” he said quietly. “You will be
able to look after Mr. Holton. He is somewhat in want of air just now,
but will soon recover.”
He hesitated for an instant, still looking straight into Merriwell’s
eyes.
“I think I have you to thank for saving me from myself,” he said
slowly. “But for you I should have done something which would have made
the remainder of my life a living hell.”
There was a puzzled look on Dick’s face.
“I don’t think I quite understand,” he said. “You came back of your own
accord. What had I to do with it?”
“I did not turn until I saw your searchlight,” Randolph explained. “It
was that which brought me to my senses. The moment I saw it flash far
behind me, I knew that another aëroplane was following me. I knew there
was no other around here but Holton’s, and he was--er--locked up. It
puzzled me for a moment, and then the realization suddenly came to me
that it must be you. I don’t know just what made me think so, but the
conviction was a very positive one.
“You had found out about Holton in some way, and had taken the only
possible means of following me to bring me back. And at the thought
of the tremendous risk you were running to save the life of a total
stranger, I seemed to realize for the first time what a horrible thing
I had done. I turned at once and started back. I was just in time,
thank God! Holton was almost gone.”
He paused and then went on in a lighter tone:
“I leave him to your care. I cannot stay. I can only say that I am glad
to have met you, Dick Merriwell. You’re a thoroughbred, if there ever
was one, and I shall not soon forget you. After what I have done, you
probably won’t shake hands, so I’ll just say good-by.”
Without another word, he wheeled and started down the hall.
Holton struggled to his feet.
“Catch him!” he gasped thickly. “Don’t let him get away! He must not
get away!”
Dick ran down the hall with the officer stumbling after him.
“Stop, Randolph!” the Yale man cried.
The loud slam of a door was his only answer. It was the door at the end
of the hall which Randolph had told them the night before led into a
closet.
Dashing forward, Dick tore it open and tripped against the first step
of some stairs leading upward. Without a moment’s hesitation, he
hurried up them. It was slow work, for the way was pitch dark and he
had to trust to his sense of feeling alone. His outstretched hands
touched the rough, uneven surface of rock on either side. He seemed to
be in a natural tunnel which wound along with many twists and turns,
but always steeply upward. It had been fitted with rough wooden stairs,
but that was all.
On he went, and on and on. He felt as though he must be almost among
the clouds before the cool night wind began to blow upon his face. At
last he emerged on a flat, rock-floored surface, walled and roofed with
timbers, but open in the front.
The hum of a gasoline engine was in his ears, the whirring purr of an
aëroplane propeller; and, as he ran forward to the open front of the
shed, he saw the shadowy bulk of the black craft spread out before him
on the flat, rocky surface.
Even as it flashed into view, it began to move swiftly down a steep
incline.
“Randolph!” the Yale man cried. “Stop!”
But Scott Randolph paid no heed. As Dick sprang out on the rocky
platform, the great black aëroplane launched itself from the cliff,
and, gathering speed with every moment, it soared upward and northward,
vanishing into the night. Presently the muffled throb of the engine
died away and all was still.
“He’s gone!” almost sobbed a voice at Merriwell’s elbow. “I’ll never
get my hookers on him again.”
It was Bert Holton, weak and exhausted by his hard climb, but rapidly
recovering in the cool night air.
“I’m afraid not,” Dick answered slowly. “I don’t think he’ll ever come
back here.”
But somehow, deep down in his heart, he was not so sorry.
Presently he turned and looked about him. They were standing on the top
of the cliff with only the glittering stars above them. It was a wide,
rocky, flat surface--an ideal spot from which to launch an aëroplane,
sloping sharply as it did, toward the outer edge.
Over a small part of this surface a rough shed had been built. The roof
was completely covered with boulders, and when the great, gray painted
doors, which closed the front, were shut, it would have taken a keen
eye to detect the presence of that ingenious shelter for the aëroplane.
“How did he catch you?” Dick asked, turning to Holton.
“I was too blamed cocksure,” the officer answered bitterly. “He was
wise to me all the time. When I come snooping around the house I finds
the door open, and like a fool, in I walks. Next thing I knew he had a
gun at my head.”
“But how did he know you were around?” Merriwell interrupted.
“One of his pals piped him off the other night,” Holton explained.
“That was the signaling you saw. The guy had seen me following, and put
Randolph wise. That’s why he came back so soon. Well, he politely tells
me what he’s going to do, and then locks me into a room while he gets
his air-tight place ready. I unfastened the shutter, but there was no
way to get out through the bars. So I hauls out my notebook and scrawls
a note. You got it, didn’t you?”
Dick nodded.
“I hadn’t more than tossed it out the window, when he comes back and
makes me go into that room. I knew from the look in his eyes that he’d
shoot me then and there for two cents. He was just itching to do it.
Otherwise, I’d have made a fight for it. But I had a little hope that
maybe you or some one would find the book and get me out.”
He paused and wiped his face with a handkerchief.
“I can’t describe the rest,” he went on slowly. “It was awful. I
never hope to go through a thing like that again. Say, Jack, was that
straight what he said about your taking the monoplane and going after
him?”
Dick smiled rather ruefully.
“It was,” he acknowledged. “And I’m very much afraid I smashed
something when I landed outside.”
“Oh, that be hanged!” Holton exclaimed. “I don’t care a rip if it’s
smashed to bits. But, by George! That was a gritty thing to do! You’ve
sure got pluck. Did you have any trouble?”
“Not a bit after I got the hang of it,” Dick answered. “But I certainly
had a sinking feeling when I first went up. Let’s go down and see how
much damage has been done.”
They felt their way to the stairs and slowly descended. About halfway
down they were surprised to hear some one stumbling toward them. The
next moment a big body bumped into Dick and a pair of arms closed
around him with a strength that nearly took his breath away.
“Thunderation, pard!” came in the Texan’s voice. “I’m sure a whole
lot glad to get my paws on you. I could rise up on my hind legs and
howl like a wolf. You had me near off my trolley till I saw your light
coming back. I beat it over here quick. Did you catch him?”
“I did not,” Dick returned, his hand resting on his chum’s shoulder.
“He came back of his own free will and let Holton loose. More than
that, he was slick enough to get away again in the aëroplane before we
could stop him.”
They had reached the lighted hall by this time, and started down the
main stairs.
“What do you know about that!” Buckhart exclaimed. “He’s sure a
slippery one.”
He looked at Dick with a grin.
“Say, pard,” he drawled, “tell us, honest, how you like flying?”
* * * * *
Four days later Dick Merriwell read the following item in a Denver
newspaper with absorbing interest.
“Miles City, Montana:--Word was brought to this city last night of the
discovery, by a party of prospectors in the mountains of Cook County,
of a wrecked aëroplane. The affair has been the cause of a good deal of
curiosity and speculation, since the presence of an air craft in this
vicinity was totally unsuspected. The machine was completely wrecked,
having apparently struck the rocks from a great height, so that
scarcely a part remained entire. A curious feature which will, perhaps,
lead to its identification, was the fact that every portion of the
machine, planes, metalwork, framework, and even the engine, had been
painted black. There were no signs of the unfortunate occupant, but it
is hardly to be hoped that he escaped the fall alive, the supposition
being that his body was eaten by wolves.”
Dick gazed silently out of the window of the Denver Club, where he was
taking lunch.
“I wonder!” he murmured presently. “Eaten by wolves, eh? I don’t
believe Scott Randolph was the man to be eaten by wolves.”