Several days after his flight with supplies to the marooned village in
the Cedar river valley, Tim had an unexpected visitor. He looked up from
his work to find a tall, curly haired man of not more than thirty years
of age, standing beside his desk.
"Are you Tim Murphy?" inquired the visitor. Tim nodded.
"I'm Kurt Blandin, boss of the Ace flying circus," replied the other. "I
hear one of the boys treated you rather roughly the other day and I
thought I'd drop in and invite you to come and see us again."
Tim thought he noted a peculiar, strained quality in the other's voice,
and he deliberated his answer.
"I'll run out some day," he said. "As a matter of fact I couldn't see
any reason why I was given the cold shoulder when I was out the first
time."
Blandin laughed and Tim found himself rather liking the other when he
smiled.
"An air circus," he said, "is bound to have some accidents and sometimes
we aren't treated any too well in the newspapers. So you can't blame the
mechanic for giving you the bum's rush. But everything will be O. K. the
next time you call." With that Blandin breezed out of the office and Tim
stared after him blankly.
Somewhere he had seen the face before. There were familiar lines about
the mouth, a peculiar little scar over the right eye and a hardness of
the voice that once heard would never be forgotten.
He forced his thoughts back to his work but Blandin and the Ace air
circus troubled him. What were they doing at Atkinson? Could there be
any connection between them and the Sky Hawk?
The ghostly quiet that comes just before the dawn was broken by the
insistent voice of the telephone.
Tim rubbed the sleep from his eyes and grabbed savagely at the offending
instrument.
"Hello, hello!" he barked.
An anxious voice came over the wire.
"What!" Tim's exclamation was charged with alarm. "You're sure? All
right, I'll be at the field just as soon as I can throw on some clothes
and get in touch with Ralph."
Tim jammed the receiver on its hook, only to seize it a moment later and
something in his voice made the operator buzz furiously as she rang
Ralph's number. After an interval that seemed an age to Tim, a sleepy
voice answered the operator's imperative rings.
"That you, Ralph?" cried Tim. When the voice admitted that it belonged
to Ralph, Tim poured his story over the wire.
"Wake up, Ralph. Wake up," he urged. "There's plenty of trouble over in
the Big Smokies. Bad Storm last night and the west-bound
Transcontinental plane has crashed somewhere. They haven't had a trace
of it since the ship went over Newton. The Transcontinental people have
sent out a general alarm and Hunter just phoned and asked us to help in
the search. Meet me at the field just as soon as you can get there."
Ralph, thoroughly awakened by Tim's words, promised to be at the field
in fifteen minutes.
The flying reporter completed dressing and hastened from his room in
quest of a taxicab. A driver, on the lookout for early morning fares,
was loafing down the street and Tim hailed the cab.
"To the municipal field," he ordered when the cab pulled up at the curb,
"and step on the gas. This is important."
The gears crashed together and the cab lurched away into the night,
gathering speed as it headed down the almost deserted avenues.
When they reached the field they found it ablaze with light. Pilots and
mechanics were hurrying in and out of the hangars and planes were being
warmed up and pushed on the line.
"Charge it to the News," said Tim as he disembarked. Hunter, who came
running out of the office, greeted him.
"Glad to see you, Tim," he said. "We're getting things lined up to start
as soon as it gets light. I've put a crew to servicing your plane and
she'll be ready in a few minutes. Where's Ralph? Isn't he going?"
Hunter's question was answered by another snorting taxi, and Ralph, only
half awake, tumbled from the car.
"What's all the excitement and the big rush to get away so quick?"
demanded Tim. "The air mail has cracked up before and has always come
out on top."
"Plenty of reason for the rush this time," said Hunter. "The plane last
night was carrying something like $500,000 in securities from New York
for a Los Angeles bank."
Tim whistled. "No wonder they're getting everything out that can flap
its wings. We'll be with the rest of them, Carl, and glad of the chance
to go. It will make a dandy story."
Tim did not voice his real thoughts for there was no need to unduly
alarm the field manager, but the minute the $500,000 had been mentioned,
the thought of the Sky Hawk flashed through his mind. It was about time
for that daring bandit of the skyways to swoop down in some bold
manoeuvre. The storm might have been responsible for the failure of the
mail to reach its destination and, again, it might not.
"Called you right away," added the field manager, "for I knew you'd want
the story. But on top of that, I wanted you to make the trip. I figure
you're one of the best pilots around here to go out on a mission like
this."
Tim grinned and gave Hunter a good-natured shove. The driver of Ralph's
taxi was turning his cab around and preparing to start back for the city
when Tim's cry stopped him.
"Wait a few minutes," he ordered, "and I'll have you take a story to the
News office." The driver agreed and shut off the motor of his cab.
"Check up on the plane, Ralph," said Tim, "and see that we have plenty
of equipment for an emergency landing in the mountains--light, stout
cable, an axe, some food and water and a first aid kit. While you're
doing that I'll go into Hunter's room and write a story to send to the
office."
In less than fifteen minutes Tim had hammered out a column story that
fairly glittered with the sharpness of its sentences and the clearness
of his simple, powerful English.
The air mail was lost somewhere in the Great Smokies, and the flying
reporter, in the Lark, would soon be away on the search. Tim smiled to
himself as he thought how Carson could play up the story. Now if they
could only find the missing plane, it would be one of the best stories
of the year.
Tim hurried out of the office and handed his story to the waiting taxi
driver. That done, he turned toward the line where five planes were
being warmed up for the search.
The flying reporter walked over to the airmen who were grouped around
the field manager. He greeted Sparks, Bronson, White and Wilkins, all
mail and express pilots--fine fellows every one of them; lean bronzed
and alive to the zest of flying. But now there were more serious lines
to their faces and it was a determined group of young men who heard
Hunter outline the plans for the search. Ralph hastened up and joined
them just as the field chief gave his final instructions.
"Buddy Perkins, who was on the mail, went over Newton on time," said
Hunter, "and he must have run into the storm about half an hour later.
That would put him almost up to the divide but with the wind against him
all the way, he probably didn't make Billy Goat. I've marked out a map
with the section each one of you is to cover. When you run short of fuel
about noon, drop down to Newton, refuel, eat and exchange notes. I hope
you won't have to go on out again, hope you'll locate Perkins by noon.
It's light enough to takeoff now, fellows, so get going and good luck."
Tim and Ralph took their places in the Good News, which was the third
ship on the line. It was just light enough to distinguish the fence
which marked the far end of the field.
Sparks and Bronson roared away, flame shooting from the exhausts of
their motors. Then Tim shoved his throttle ahead and sent the Lark
skimming into the air. Behind him came White and Wilkins. Away into the
west they sped, traveling on the wings of the dawn, intent on their
quest for the missing Perkins.
Within the hour they had roared over Newton, nestled in the foothills of
the Great Smokies, and had started clawing for altitude. The Lark
handled beautifully in the cool air of the early September morning and
answered to Tim's every movement.
The flying reporter could see Sparks and Bronson swing away to his left
while White and Wilkins turned to the right to cover the territory which
Hunter had mapped out for each plane. Tim was more fortunate than the
other flyers for he had Ralph's keen eyes to help him comb the uneven
ground below. Ahead of them loomed the Billy Goat, the highest peak of
the range. Tim's sector was on the east slope of the lofty mountain. Up
and down, back and forth, Tim swung the Lark as he shuttled along the
path usually followed by the air mail and express planes. The Billy Goat
glistened in the morning sun but smiled grimly--almost defiantly Tim
imagined, as it thwarted his every effort to find any trace of the
missing plane.
By mid-forenoon Tim's gas supply was getting low and he signalled to
Ralph that he was going to turn back to Newton and replenish his fuel.
They were near the top of Billy Goat and both Tim and Ralph felt certain
that if Perkins had crashed on that side of the mountain they would have
sighted him.
Tim cut his motor and let the Lark soar gracefully downward from the
summit of the range. For a moment he forgot the urgent mission which had
brought them out and reveled in the sheer joy of flying. Like a great
bird his plane wheeled and swooped in the sky.
Half way to Newton Tim was joined by Sparks and White. They landed at
the emergency field at the foothill town and a few minutes later were
joined by Bronson and Wilkins. There was no need to ask about their
success. Their faces told the story of the failure of their efforts.
While the other pilots were refueling their planes, Tim hurried into the
village where he secured a basket of sandwiches. He made several
inquiries in the village and related the result of these when he
returned to the field.
The airmen sprawled beneath their planes and hastily munched the
sandwiches Tim had provided.
"You say he went through here on time?" asked White, who had been a
close friend of the missing Perkins.
"That's what they say in Newton," replied Tim. "The storm was
threatening when Perk went over and he was flying pretty low and fast.
About half an hour after he passed, the storm swept down from Billy Goat
and from what folks here say, it was a bad one."
"Half an hour," grunted Ralph between bites of a sandwich. "That means
he was pretty well up toward the divide. Maybe he got across on the
other side."
"It's just too bad if he did," remarked Bronson. "You know what the
other side of the Billy Goat is like. Not a nickel's worth of room for a
forced landing. If Perk got on the other side he's crashed sure."
"Might not be that bad," said Tim. "Anyway, I'm going to try the other
side of Billy Goat this afternoon."
"Look out you don't disappear along with Perk," warned White.
"Not much chance of that with Ralph along," grinned Tim. "I'll see you
fellows here later."
The foothills awoke to the roar of five high-powered airplane motors and
one after another the flyers took off to resume their hunt.
Tim gunned the Lark and headed straight for the crest of the Great
Smokies. The divide was a little to the right of Billy Goat. Tim boosted
his plane over the snow-capped tops of the range and coasted down the
other side. The slope on the west side was more broken--deep canyons
with good-sized streams plunging along in their depths. But from the
plane the rivers looked like ribbons of silver. It was a scene of
majestic beauty but it gave Tim the shivers when he thought of being
trapped on the inhospitable slope in a storm or, worse, at the mercy of
the Sky Hawk.
For fifty miles Tim and Ralph followed the path of the mail and express
ships, searching every valley, but their efforts were fruitless.
Tim frowned bitterly and turned the Lark eastward in a tight bank. Ralph
looked back apprehensively but Tim only shook his head and pointed
southeast. How blind he had been. If Perkins had made the crest of the
divide and gotten over before the storm caught him, he would probably
have been driven southwest along the side of the mountains. The Great
Smokies ran northeast and southwest and the storm of the night before
had swept down almost directly from the north.
When Tim again reached the western slope of the Billy Goat, he headed
south and west. He scribbled a note to Ralph, explaining his reason for
the sudden about face, and his companion nodded approval.
For an hour they searched the side of the range south of Billy Goat, and
Tim, with an eye on the gas gauge, was about to give up the quest, when
Ralph shouted and pointed downward.
A flash of white on a rocky ledge caught Tim's eye and he circled lower.
His breath caught sharply. Ralph's sharp eyes had found the wreck of the
air express. On a ledge of rock cropping out from the side of the
mountain they could see the twisted remains of the plane!