"One thing is clear--" said Dorothy firmly--"and that is, we can't let
Michael Conway be butchered by that band of cut-throats. He saved our
lives--we've got to save his."
Bill, his head in his hands, did not reply.
"If you were only in better shape so I could get those handcuffs
off--and if there weren't so many of them in the house," she went on,
speaking her thoughts aloud, "one of us might be able to hold them up
from the window while the other went round through the door and took
their guns away. But we can't afford to wait till you can walk alone and
I can free your hands. What's to become of Mr. Conway, in the meantime?
Oh, Bill, you're generally so fertile with ideas--_can't_ you think of
any thing?"
Bill lay motionless, and still did not answer.
Dorothy stooped over him.
"Bill! Bill!" she called in a tense whisper. Then, daring greatly, she
flashed her light on his face, held it there for an instant, then
snapped it off.
"Down and out, poor chap," was her summing up after a glimpse of his
closed eyes and dead white features. "Loss of blood, probably. He'll
come round after while--but when?"
Her heart sank. For several minutes she knelt beside his quiet form,
lost in thought. Then she began to act.
"Sorry, Bill, old thing, but I've got to leave you. It's the only way."
Her murmured tones were muffled by the sweater she pulled over her head.
Stripping free her arms, she rolled it in a ball and placed the soft
pillow beneath Bill's head. She gave him a little pat, then started off
toward the hill back of the house.
Dorothy crossed the field beyond the farm's overgrown orchard in
darkness. It was not until she reached the woods at the foot of the hill
that she dared to snap on her flashlight.
Even with its help the climb was no sinecure. The hillside, steep as a
church roof and densely wooded, was, moreover, thick with underbrush,
which hindered her progress. Rocky outcroppings and huge boulders made
frequent detours necessary.
By the time she struggled to the top she was winded and pretty well done
up. Her vitality had suffered considerably from strain and worry and
violent exercise during the course of the evening. She was quite ready
to drop down and have a good cry, and to admit to herself right then
that she was beaten. Only the knowledge that a life, possibly two, hung
upon her efforts, kept her going. Stopping only long enough to tie a
broken shoelace, she hurried over the crest of the hill and plunged down
the farther side.
Here, her progress became even more difficult, for she floundered into a
berry patch whose thorns tore her clothing and badly scratched her face
and hands. Determinedly, she pushed her way through, gritting her teeth
in pain.
Presently, after several bad falls over hidden rocks and tree stumps,
she found herself on a narrow, grass-grown wood road at the foot of the
hill. So far as she could see, the trail wound along the middle of the
valley. But she hadn't the faintest idea in which direction lay the
field (Bill had called it a wood lot) where the _Loening_ was hidden.
Dorothy was totally at a loss. _Why_ hadn't she taken more precise
directions before tramping over here? This trail _must_ lead to the wood
lot or near it. Bill said Frank had driven there in the car....
"What a fool I am!" she exclaimed suddenly to the night at large and
pointed her flashlight toward the ground at her feet.
There were the tire marks of a car, plain enough. Brewster and Danbury
lay far to the left beyond the mouth of this valley which paralleled
that of the gang's headquarters. Therefore, Bill's car must have come up
the trail from the left. The tracks kept on up the road to her left--the
wood lot must be in that direction.
As she trudged on, watching carefully for any deviation of the tire
marks, she forgot her weariness for the time being. The winding road
ended and she saw an open space ahead. It must be the wood lot. Hadn't
Bill said it was the only possible landing place in the valley!
Dorothy hurried across the field, through a tangle of knee-high grasses
and wild flowers. She pointed her light higher now and tried to pierce
the black of the night for a glimpse of the plane. Then she saw it
parked at the forest's edge, directly ahead, and sprang forward with a
delighted cry.
As she came close, she saw that it faced the open lot, and silently
thanked Bill for his foresight. With a plane the size of the amphibian
it would have been impossible to swing round the tail unassisted.
Her preparations for this flight would probably not have met with her
instructor's approval. But knowing that time was more important than
detail, she cut them to a minimum.
A quick glance at the retractible landing gear sufficed to satisfy her
that the wheels were securely blocked. Then she sprang aboard and gave
the engine a short ground test. It was acting splendidly and she shut it
off almost directly.
A hurried trip aft to the cabin and she came back to the pilot's
cockpit, dragging the plane's machine gun, which, after some trouble,
she managed to set up on its tripod which she fastened to cleats in the
decking.
Certain now that the gun was secure, she adjusted the ammunition belt as
Bill had instructed her. Then she raced aft again and overside. When she
returned, she brought the wheel blocks with her. These she dropped in
the cabin, saw to it that the door was properly fastened, then took her
place at the controls forward.
The night was overcast and starless; the ceiling unusually low, and so
far as she could judge there was not the slightest breath of wind. She
switched on the plane's searchlight and started the engine.
The trees at the far end of the wood lot were uncomfortably near and
high. Yet Bill had judged a take off from such a place to be possible,
or he would never have parked there.
The big Loening was moving now--rolling drunkenly over the rough ground,
yet gaining speed with every foot. She widened her throttle, steadily,
fully--at the same time pushing the stick well forward. Then as the
amphibian gained still more speed and she felt the tail lift clear, she
eased the stick steadily back to neutral.
They were racing over the field now. She gave the elevators a slight
upward pressure. The wheels lifted clear, but the trees at the edge of
the lot were perilously near. She knew that when a plane leaves the
ground its speed is not far above stalling point. And with these trees
so close, to stall now would precipitate a bad crash--and failure.
Dorothy, therefore, kept the nose level for an instant or two, a
dangerously short instant, she feared. Back came her stick again. The
plane was climbing at last but at a frightfully precipitous angle. Would
they make it? Would the throbbing engine continue to function under the
unaccustomed strain?
Dorothy bit her lip. She eased off slightly as the motor coughed; but
pulled the stick back almost immediately.
They were abreast the treetops now.--They were over. But with a margin
so small that Dorothy was certain the wheels had brushed the branches.
She eased their angle of ascent, but still continued to climb. Then when
she was sure they were well above the crest of the hill, she leveled off
and banked to the left.
Once more she leveled off and turned on the electrical mechanism which
raised the plane's landing gear.
Below her she could dimly make out the gangster's farmhouse, the lake
and the stretch of ground between them. She closed her throttle, pushing
the stick forward as she did so, and at the same time applied right
aileron and hard right rudder.
As the plane shot downward she neutralized the elevators. Then did
likewise with her ailerons as the proper bank was reached. Left aileron
and hard left rudder were next applied until the wings became laterally
level. Having completed a beautiful half spiral, Dorothy landed the
amphibian on the little lake.
Her next move was an unusual one, but on it depended the success or
failure of her plan.
With the airplane headed toward the lake's low shore beyond which lay
the farmhouse, she turned the switch which propelled the retractible
landing gear downward and into the water. Then she opened the throttle
for the last time.
There came a bump and a jar. The tail tilted to a dangerous angle as the
plane's wheels struck the shallows. Would they mire in the soft ground
at the lake's edge she wondered, and cause the big bus to nose over and
crash? But no--the plane, after a sickening wrench, rolled free. It
glided over the sandy bank and on to the grass.
Shutting off her engine, Dorothy permitted her amphibian steed to come
to a stop at the porch steps, its ugly snout poked almost up to the open
doorway of the house.
Dorothy had been too busy guiding her bus to pay any attention to the
reception accorded her arrival. A shot or two had been fired from the
porch and she had caught a glimpse of dark figures silhouetted against
the open doorway.
But now, as the slowing wheels struck the steps, the porch was empty.
The way was clear for Mike's release. Together they would find Bill and
make a clean getaway in the amphibian. What did it matter if the gang
made their escape? Her life and the lives of her two friends were all
that counted now.
To speed the departing company she turned the Browning into action and
sent half a belt of bullets whipping through the door. But Dorothy aimed
high. She had no desire to play the part of executioner.
From her place in the cockpit she got a good view of the front room.
Mike, the Scotland Yard detective, still sat bound to his chair, but the
others were streaking for the back of the house. She could see them
tugging at the doors, which for some reason, seemed to give them
difficulty of exit. Huddled at the far end of the room, they clamored
and struggled to get out of range.
Dorothy stopped firing and Bill Bolton hobbled up the porch steps.
"Jumping Jupiter! girl, you're a wonder!" he applauded. "Hold the
Browning on 'em. They can't get away. I locked those doors from the
outside. Crawled through the wine cellar window to do it," he panted.
"Thought it might embarrass them some--but this stunt of yours makes it
perfect."
He took a step forward and raised his voice.
"Stick 'em up!" he cried. "Stick 'em up--every one of you--that's
better. Now line up, facing the back wall--and remember--just one bad
break is all Miss Dixon wants to rip off another belt--aimed right, this
time--" he added significantly.
As the gangsters scrambled to obey his orders, Bill walked into the room
and Dorothy saw that his wrists were still handcuffed behind his back.
"Who's got the handcuff key, Mr. Conway?" he inquired.
"Johnny, I believe," returned Mike quietly.
"Johnny, have you the key?" This from Bill.
"Y-yes, I got it."
"Got a gun?"
"N-no, sir, it's on the table."
"I'll take your word for it. Throw the key over your shoulder, then
stick up your hands again."
Johnny complied with these demands, and Bill picked up the key by
sitting on the floor and worming over to where it lay.
"Think you can turn this with your teeth, Mr. Scotland Yard?"
Mike nodded. Bill swung round and lifted his hands as high as his bonds
permitted. The detective lowered his head and got his teeth on the key.
A moment later there sounded a slight snap--and Bill was free.
"Good job!" He worked his cramped shoulders. "That certainly is a
relief!"
He limped to the table, snatched a knife and a couple of seconds later
Mike was on his feet. Without more ado they turned to, and roped the
gangsters one by one.
Dorothy got down from the plane and came into the room.
"Who's going to stand guard while the plane goes for the police?"
"Nobody," was Bill's answer. "We'll pile the bunch in the bus and take
them to New Canaan ourselves. Gosh, there'll be some big time in the
town tonight, when we arrive!"
"This morning, you mean," yawned Dorothy. "It's getting light. And you
two may not know it, but I could go to sleep standing up--and right
now!"
"Brace up, kid! You're some aviatrix, even though I did train you!"
"I'll second that--" beamed Mr. Michael Conway, grasping her hand. "I
had a splendid view through the doorway--and when that big bus hurled
itself out of the water like a hippo--and began to charge the house,
I--"
But Dorothy interrupted him with a shake of her head and an involuntary
glance at Bill. "All I did was to take some awful chances with Bill's
property, Mr. Conway."
"Ah--incidentally--saving my life, and making the capture of this gang
possible?" smiled the detective. "You're a modest young lady, indeed.
But I suppose we'd better be getting along--" and with a wave of his
hand, he added, "it may interest you to know that the loot is in that
kit bag under the table."
"O.K. We'll attend to that," said Bill.
Then turning to Dorothy--"I'll say you took some chances, young woman!
How about getting a plane of your own to fool with from now on?"
"Oh, Bill! Do you think Daddy will let me?"
"I know he will." Bill was serious now. "After what you've done tonight,
you've certainly won your wings!"
Those who have enjoyed this story will be interested in the next book of
this series, entitled _Dorothy Dixon and the Mystery Plane_.