He wasted no time in taking off--no telling when fleecy cumulous clouds
would form in the sky and spoil the continuity of the strips. Apperson
had everything in readiness; the camera was set in the floor of the rear
cockpit, in which an opening was cut to fit it. The electric motor was
connected, and spare batteries and plenty of film for the day’s work
were in a specially built recess behind the seat.
After a few circles of the field Hemingwood set out for Herkimer,
climbing steadily.
In a half hour the altimeter was reading eleven thousand feet, and the
long grind began. He was flying his strips over the short ten mile
course, east and west.
It was hard work to fly continuously with every faculty concentrated on
keeping the ship absolutely level and flying a straight line, making
sure that the strips had plenty of overlap and that the speed of the
’plane was kept constant. In the rear Apperson was devoting all his
attention to the huge camera and the motor. The camera was geared to
shoot a picture automatically at intervals of a few seconds. When he
wanted to reload he signaled Hemingwood, who thereupon flew around,
killing time until the change had been made.
Four hours of it left even the nerveless pilot very tired; he was
heartily glad when it was time to drop earthward again. They had covered
the first six miles of the terrain they were to shoot. He hoped devoutly
that there were no gaps to make retakes necessary. No way to tell that,
though, until the thousands of pictures had been developed and
laboriously put together in the completed mosaic.
Mumford proved he was on the job by having the next day’s supplies
delivered at the field within a half hour after they had landed. By the
time the big tanks of the D. H. were full, a few spectators had arrived
and were looking in awed wonder at the gigantic bomber. Close on their
heels came Miss Morgan.
Mumford seemed distraught and ill-at-ease, referring to the fight only
slightly. Hemingwood decided that the merchant did not dare take sides
openly against the mountaineers and that he was considerably worried
because of his business connection with the hated Government man. His
niece, however, did not follow his lead. She beckoned Hemingwood to one
side, and her eyes were dark with worry.
“Tell me about this morning,” she commanded, and Hemingwood obliged,
giving a more or less ludicrous account thereof.
“Apperson and I are going to stay out here and guard the crate,” he
concluded. “I guess they won’t monkey with us any more. I notice that
the wild eyed mob here are keeping their distance pretty well.”
“I wish you wouldn’t take it so lightly,” she protested. “You have no
idea how they are when they’re aroused or frightened. With your ship
flying around over them all day they’ll feel hunted, and--”
“I tried to explain this morning that I’m not interested in their
private crimes,” Hemingwood told her with a grin.
“I know, but the poor dears have been hunted so much for things like
moonshining, which they consider perfectly all right--you know they can’t
see for the life of them why they should be taxed, or be breaking the
law, because they make some corn mash out of their own corn and distill
it--”
“I know. But the poor dears give me a pain in the neck when they try to
bust up my ship. But let’s not worry about it, eh?”
Whereupon, in a very presentable baritone, he burst forth into a song:
“Snap your fingers at care!
Don’t cross the bridge ’till you’re there--”
The girl hesitated, smiled, and finally laughed. She became serious
again very soon, however.
“That’s fine, but please be careful and try not to alienate them any
more, won’t you?” she begged him.
Hemingwood assented, and he was aware of a curious feeling of warm
satisfaction that she took so much interest in the situation. He himself
simply couldn’t be worried about it. He was an unusual type. He could
not be said to be brave, because he was really unacquainted with fear.
It was a strange paradox, that a man who loved living so much should
hold life itself so cheaply as did George Arlington Hemingwood, of the
Hemingwoods of Boston.
“I’ll bring you your supper,” she offered.
“I’ve got to go to town and see if I can rustle some blankets and
perhaps a tent from your uncle. He just told me he had some.”
The noise of a motor became clear, and George looked up to see the
Mumford truck on its way homeward.
“I intended to get a ride back to town, but I see I missed out,”
Hemingwood observed. Mumford apparently wanted to spend no more time
than he needed to in the vicinity of the flyers.
“Don’t blame him, please, Lieutenant Hemingwood,” the girl said in a low
voice. “You have no idea what a difficult position he is in because of
the trouble this morning. The mountain people--”
“I understand. There’s no reason why he should risk being mixed up in
it,” nodded Hemingwood.
“I’ll give you a lift home on Pegasus,” she offered, and so it came
about that Hemingwood had a hilarious ride back to East Point on the
rear deck of the venerable Pegasus. He got off a little way out of town
although the girl did not suggest it.
“I can’t call on you tonight, which I intended to ask permission to do,”
he told her, smiling up into her own mirthful eyes. “You have no idea
what an angel from heaven you’d seem if you passed our palatial pasture
home this evening, though.”
She hesitated a moment, and then laughed.
“I am invited out so little here that I miss no opportunities to take
part in the social whirl,” she smiled. “Aunty and I will accept with
pleasure, and supply a better picnic supper than you can get out of
cans, too!”
He got his supplies from Mumford, including the tent, and likewise a
letter, addressed in pencil to Lt. Hemingwood in care of Mumford’s
store. The script was all but illegible. He opened it in Mumford’s
presence, and read:
Take my advise and git out of town quick or youll
be sorry I know what Im talkin about
A friend
Hemingwood’s mouth stretched in a wide grin. He thrust it into his
pocket and said nothing about it to the patiently curious Mumford.
He showed it to Epperson, back at the field, and that wily Scot shook his head.
“’Tis no such a bonny country,” he remarked, sucking at his pipe.
“Funny people, wild as March hares,” assented Hemingwood. “They’ll think
several times before they really try to harm us, though. The most we’ve
got to look forward to is another attempt to harm the ship, I imagine.
Our hides will stay intact except under unusual circumstances. Let’s
pitch the bungalow so I can catch a nap before dinner arrives.”
Which they did. And Hemingwood, entirely unaffected by the note in his
pocket, fell asleep immediately. He had much more interesting things to
think about than crazy mountaineers. Miss Morgan, for instance.
His awakening was very pleasant, being brought about through the medium
of Gail Morgan’s far from unmusical voice. He thrust his tousled head
through the flaps of the tent and smiled through the fog of heavy
slumber.
“I hope I’m awake and that this isn’t a dream,” he greeted her.
“I brought you large sections of food which may be a little more
appetizing than you could have found,” she told him, smiling down from
her throne on Pegasus. “If urged, I might even toy delicately with some
of it myself. My aunt couldn’t come.”
She wore no hat, and her piquant face was framed in flying brown hair.
Hemingwood smiled appreciatively at the picture she presented.
“Where’s Apperson?” he inquired.
“Asleep in the ship.”
That worthy was awakened for the meal, which did not conclude until
after twilight. Gail leaned back against one wheel of the ship in
comfort. Hemingwood lay lazily at full length. Apperson went for a walk.
He was a tactful man, was the sergeant.
“Your uncle was a bit mysterious about this Ballardson bozo,” Hemingwood
remarked. “There’s no love lost between them, is there?”
“Oh, they get along all right,” Gail responded carelessly. “Uncle Ed
doesn’t exactly approve of Ballardson, though?”
“Why not, if I’m not too curious?”
“He’s from the mountains, you know, and everybody knows that his garage
business doesn’t amount to anything. His real occupation is transferring
moonshine by truck into various towns--Covington and Cincinnati,
principally.”
“I see.”
It was probably Ballardson who had sent that note, Hemingwood reflected.
The garage man did not cotton to the idea of a ship flying above the
mountains several hours a day, taking pictures which he would figure
might be for the purpose of locating stills. He had taken a chance that
the letter would scare the interlopers away. Hemingwood did not
anticipate any more extreme measures, when the note failed to work. It
had been his experience that the uniform of the United States Army
aroused respect enough to make any wearer thereof immune from actual
personal violence, under ordinary conditions. He had seen the effect of
it on the border and likewise in these same Kentucky mountains. Except
under unusual provocation, an army man was much safer than any other
stranger could possibly be.
“Has East Point got any minion of the law?” he asked.
“Just Ballardson,” returned Gail, with that little chuckle that
Hemingwood so enjoyed hearing.
The pilot laughed aloud, and Gail joined him.
“So the prominent bootlegger is peace officer, eh?” chortled Hemingwood.
“That’s what I call a real tight corporation.”
“He’s pretty good at the job, aside from the moonshine, too,” the girl
told him.
The stars winked into being, and before long a thin moon rose above the
mountains. They talked casually of many things, with an undercurrent of
friendly understanding that seemed like the result of long acquaintance.
Hemingwood learned that his estimate of her was correct. She had
finished college the year before and was spending a year in East Point
because of the ill health of her aunt and likewise because her own
rather drawn condition as a result of hectic college years.
“I tried to study all day and dance all night and it didn’t work,” she
admitted. “But I had a good time! I haven’t minded it so much up here,
but I’ll be glad to get back. Week-ends in Louisville once or twice a
month have been about all that kept me from dying of dry rot this
winter. Flyers don’t drop in every day.”
“They don’t know you’re here,” he told her. “After I spread the news
they’ll be flying in here in coveys.”
Apperson came back and disappeared into the tent. Hemingwood was to take
the first watch. At nine o’clock Gail got to her feet and announced that
she must be going. Hemingwood walked over to the fence with her. Pegasus
was tethered there.
As their hands clasped in parting and he looked down into her upturned
face he obeyed an irresistible impulse and leaned over to kiss her.
She slipped away, laughing.
“We’re getting along wonderfully, but not that well,” she chuckled, and
swung aboard Pegasus. “Good night. And if you have any more fights I
hope you win them!”
He stood and watched her as Pegasus ambled along the moonlit road. Just
before they entered the deep shadow of the trees she turned in the
saddle and threw him a parting smile and waved. She seemed, at that
moment, like some little goddess disappearing from mortal eyes into the
impenetrable darkness of the forest.
He walked back to the ship slowly and sat in the cockpit. His Colt was
ready to his hand, and the shadowed mountains clustering around him
seemed doubly mysterious, even menacing, under the blanket of the night.
They seemed to be whispering with all the bloody legends of the mountain
country and to be vibrant with some of the passion and untamable
wildness of the people whom they sheltered.
And yet George Arlington Hemingwood, a lonely watchman in the midst of
all-pervading silence, was thinking, not of what might happen with his
enemies, but rather of what the future might hold forth for himself and
Gail Morgan.