Tim kept the contents of the Sky Hawk's message to himself. There was no
need to alarm Ralph for he felt that it was a personal matter, but it
disturbed him more than he cared to acknowledge. On the verge of what
should have been his greatest success, the attainment of the goal to
which he had been striving, the aviation editorship of the News, had
come the mysterious message from the Sky Hawk, and Tim promised himself
that he would keep himself fully prepared and alive to every emergency.
Their return to Atkinson brought a round of banquets and series of
speeches at civic clubs. By early fall he was back in the pleasant
routine, but this time with a desk of his own and the sign, "Aviation
Editor," on a small card.
For days he watched the news, listened to the gossip at the airport but
there was no sign of the Sky Hawk--no sign since the day he had looted
the wreck of the mail months before in the fastnesses of the Great
Smokies. Yet Tim felt that the Sky Hawk was about to strike again and he
knew that the next time it would be a battle to the end.
Then the smouldering fires of revolt burst into flame in Mexico. General
Enrique Lopez, an officer in the federal army, had broken with the
government and had taken the field against the federals. His army,
recruited from the ranks of disgruntled federal soldiers, Yaqui Indians
and peasants, enjoyed startling success in the first days of the
revolution. Then Lopez played his hidden card and bombed Mexico City
from the air.
The daring of his feat fanned American interest in the revolt and the
front pages of the papers blazed with headlines which told of the
progress of the revolt.
Young airmen, attracted by the high salaries offered by both the federal
and rebel armies, flocked toward the border, only to be met by the
stern, hard flying men of the U.S. army's border patrol. There they were
warned to turn back or take their chances at being shot down in their
attempt to fly into Mexico. The majority of them returned but a few of
the more daring ran the gauntlet of fire from the border patrol and made
their way into Mexico.
A few pictures of the fighting between the troops came straggling up
from the border but they were far from satisfactory and so far as could
be ascertained, there were no actual photographs of the rebel chieftain.
Within a short time American news picture services were offering
fabulous prices for pictures of General Lopez but the wily rebel leader
evaded every effort of the photographers. The luckless individuals who
penetrated through his lines were imprisoned and their plates and
cameras smashed.
Tim, who had been watching the course of events below the border, was
not greatly surprised when, one morning late in August, Carson called
him to his desk.
"Can you be ready to start for Mexico in half an hour?" asked the
managing editor.
Tim had halfway expected to be sent to the border but to be asked to get
into the interior of the strife-torn country was another thing. But his
answer was quick in coming.
"In less than that, if it's necessary," he said.
"I'm not ordering you to go, Tim," went on the managing editor. "It's up
to you, but it's a great chance for the News to scoop the world if you
can get inside Lopez' lines, gain his confidence, and get back here with
exclusive pictures of the rebel camp. It will be dangerous and your life
will be in your own hands."
"I'll be ready to start in half an hour," was Tim's even-toned reply.
Inwardly he was seething with excitement for it was his biggest
assignment.
"I was fairly sure you would go," smiled Carson, "but I don't want you
to take an unnecessary risk. I've had your equipment ordered, a high
speed camera, and plenty of plates for the long distance shots. In
addition, we have a small pocket camera that may come in handy if they
seize your big machine. Here's plenty of money for expenses on the first
part of the trip and we'll authorize the bank at Nogales, Arizona, to
honor your checks for any amounts that you may need."
Tim had turned away from the managing editor's desk to tell Dan Watkins
of his big assignment when Carson called him back.
"I think you ought to know," he said, "that if you get those pictures we
can sell the national rights on them to a news picture service. That
will mean several thousand dollars and I'll see that you get a fair
share if you succeed."
Dan, at the copy desk, was enthusiastic, but he cautioned Tim to be
careful.
"We'll miss you, Tim, and will be looking for your return," he added as
they said goodbye.
Tim hurried to his room, gathered the few essentials he would need for
the trip, and drove out to the field. There he inspected the cameras and
made sure that everything was in readiness for the long flight. It would
be a good 1,000 miles to Nogales, on the border, and another 200 miles
down into the mountains of Sonora before Tim could hope to come in
contact with the rebel forces.
Confident that he had all the equipment necessary for his hazardous
undertaking, Tim swung into the cockpit of the Good News. The motor was
purring impatiently, as though the plane sensed its mission and was
anxious to be clear of the ties that kept it earth-bound.
There were hasty last-minute farewells and then Tim sent his plane
dusting over the field and into the air. He was away on his biggest
assignment--that of securing pictures of the leader of the Mexican
revolt.
The trip to Nogales was uneventful and Tim took two days to cover the
1,000 miles, landing at the border city shortly before noon on the
second day. He circled over the airport while one of the ships of the U.
S. army border patrol took off and climbed to have a look at him.
When the pilot of the army craft saw the sign on Tim's plane, he waved a
friendly greeting and sped away into the east on his lonely patrol.
Tim soared down out of the cloudless sky and brought the Good News to a
stop on the brown, sunbaked field at the edge of the city. He went
through the usual formality of registering his plane and his credentials
were accepted without question.
Before he left the field to run into the city for lunch, an incoming
plane attracted his attention. It was one of the border patrolmen,
flying fast and low. The machine made a dizzy sideslip and broke one
wheel in landing but the pilot managed to check its wild course and
brought it to a halt before it crashed into one of the hangars near the
main office.
Tim was one of the first to reach the plane and helped pull a
white-faced flyer from the cockpit. The army man had been shot through
the right shoulder and his arm hung limp and useless. He had managed,
somehow, to land with only one hand on the controls.
"What happened, Kennard," demanded Captain John Talbot, commandant of
the Nogales field.
"Ran into a chap trying to cross the border," replied Lieutenant Ned
Kennard, "and he decided to shoot it out with me. You'll find what's
left of him about twenty-five miles west of here."
Tim pieced the story together and secured enough material for a dandy
yarn on the first airplane battle along the border. He hastened into
town to the telegraph office where he filed a 1,000 word story to the
News. When he returned to the field after lunch he found a message from
Carson, congratulating him on the story. Tim's yarn had been much more
complete than the story carried on the press association wires and had
reached Carson's desk two hours before it came through the regular
channels. It had enabled the News to score a clean beat on their rival
afternoon papers in Atkinson on the big story of the day.
Tim was forced to wait a few minutes before he could obtain an interview
with the commandant of the field. When he finally entered Captain
Talbot's office, he received a cordial greeting.
"I understand you want permission to cross the border and hope to get
pictures of Lopez and his rebel camp," said the commandant.
"That's right," said Tim, "and I'll appreciate all the advice and help
you can give me."
"Then my advice is don't go," replied Captain Talbot. "General Lopez is
a thoroughly capable military man but his chances of success are slim.
Even now he has been driven into the mountains of Sonora and only his
air force of a dozen planes has saved him. He may have to make a break
for the international border almost any day and he doesn't want his
picture broadcast. As it is now, I haven't any idea what he looks like
for we have no photographs. But if you succeed in your mission he will
be recognized instantly at any border post."
"Do you think the revolution Lopez has started is justified?" asked Tim.
"No, I don't," said Captain Talbot, emphasizing every word. "I've been
on the border for ten years now and I know Lopez is nothing more than a
bandit, and not a very high class one at that. He's using the revolution
as a guise to rob banks, loot towns and generally blackmail all of the
business interests in the territory which he controls. It's simply
banditry on a wholesale scale and when he gets his pockets filled, he'll
slide across the border and leave his subordinates to face the federal
firing squads."
"Nice sort of a fellow, isn't he?"
"Yes," said the military man. "Nice when you have him in front of you
where you can watch him every minute."
"I've been assigned to get pictures of Lopez and that's what I'm going
to do," said Tim. "It looks like I may be helping a lot of poor fellows
if I do get those pictures and spread Lopez' likeness all over the front
pages."
"I don't envy you the task. You're putting your head in the lion's mouth
and you'll be so far down in Sonora that we won't be able to help you.
If you were only ten or twelve miles across the border, we might help
for we stretch the boundary once in a while when our people get in
trouble," said Captain Talbot while a slight smile played around the
corners of his mouth.
"I might as well make plans to start first thing in the morning," said
Tim, "and if you'll lend me a bucket of dope, I'll paint out the sign on
the side of my plane. It would be fatal to go barging into Mexico with
that kind of an identification for everyone to shoot at."
Captain Talbot agreed to let Tim have all the material he needed and
also assigned a mechanic to help him. By late afternoon the Good News
had been completely disguised and some fake bullet holes, to indicate a
clash with the border patrol, were made in the wings and the fuselage.
Tim had decided on the role he would play. He intended to stake the
success or failure of his plan on a bold approach of Lopez' camp, where
he would present himself as a free lance flyer ready to join the rebel
cause.
The next morning Tim secured the latest information on the whereabouts
of the rebel chieftain and found that Lopez was near Cedros, three
hundred miles south of the border and well into the mountains of Sonora.
From that guarded retreat he was directing his army while his flyers
made raids on the federal troops who were massing for an attack on his
mountain stronghold.
With the good wishes of the border patrolmen ringing in his ears, Tim
took off from the field at Nogales and headed south, following the line
of the Southern Pacific of Mexico. For a hundred miles he followed this
course, then angled southeast. In a little more than two hours and a
half he was well into the mountains, and according to his map, should be
nearing Cedros, the village where Lopez had established his
headquarters.
A sharp droning caught Tim's attention and he turned to find a black
monoplane bearing down on him. Twin machine guns, mounted on the
cowling, were belching tracer bullets in his direction. One thing sure,
Lopez' watchdogs of the clouds were on the alert.
Tim had no intention of being shot down and although he was confident
the Good News could outrun and out-maneuver the other plane, he
concluded he might just as well start his little game. He gripped the
stick between his knees and held his hands above his head as the other
plane overhauled him.
The pilot of the black craft stopped his chattering guns and motioned
for Tim to precede him through a gap in the mountains. In less than five
minutes they were over the sheltered valley where the village of Cedros
nestled close to the mountain-side. It was an ideal retreat for the
rebel chieftain, practically inaccessible to the federal troops and
easily defended from the air.
Tim, obeying orders from the other pilot, landed in a small field a
short distance from the village. He shut off his motor and waited for
his captor to approach. The pilot of the black monoplane was a chunky
little man with fiery red hair and watery blue eyes.
"What are you doing down here?" he demanded, as he came up to Tim's
plane. He carried a revolver strapped to his waist but made no motion
toward it. "You're nothing but a youngster," he added.
"I'm looking for General Lopez," said Tim. "I heard he was paying good
money for flyers."
"You've found Lopez all right," said the other airman. "This is his
headquarters and unless I'm mistaken, he's hot-footing it down here
right now. You'd better tell a straight story or he'll make you wish you
were never born."
Tim saw a pudgy, brown-skinned little man in a khaki uniform with an
abundance of gold braid, strutting down the road that bordered the
field. Trailing him were half a dozen officers of nondescript rank.
"Better climb down," muttered Tim's captor.
The flying reporter slid out of his plane and lounged against the
fuselage, as he watched the approach of the rebel leader. So this
pig-eye lump of a man was the leader of the revolution. Tim felt a surge
of disappointment for Lopez was anything but what he had pictured him.
Tim had visualized a tall, clean cut man with a forceful personality and
he felt cheated at what he saw.
As the general approached, Tim's captor drew himself to attention and
saluted. Tim thought it might make a good impression if he did likewise.
His hunch was right for he saw a flash of pleasure in the eyes of Lopez.
The general wasted few words.
"Who is this man?" he demanded of the other flyer. The pilot of the
rebel plane told how he had sighted Tim and brought him to Cedros. He
added that Tim had told him he hoped to join the rebel air force.
Lopez turned on Tim.
"So," he said, "you wish to join us."
Tim nodded.
"Who are you and where do you come from?" The words cracked through the
air like a whiplash and Tim was startled by the forcefulness of the
question but he had planned carefully for just such a moment.
"I'm Tim Murphy of Blanton," he replied, "and out for anything that
promises good pay." Tim had decided to use his own name but not that of
his home town.
Lopez was appraising him through half-closed eyes and Tim felt them
boring into him, searching for something false in his appearance.
Whatever the rebel chief's shortcomings might be, he was a man of
decision.
"You can join us," he said, "at $200 a week, but one bad move and--."
Lopez did not complete the sentence for a plane careened through the gap
in the mountains and settled down swiftly on the field.
Tim, who was busy surveying his new surroundings, paid little attention
to the newcomer until the pilot climbed out of his cockpit and took off
his helmet.
Then he found himself staring into the eyes of Daredevil Dugan!
Before Tim had time to speak or motion Dugan to silence, the daredevil
was striding toward him, hand outstretched.
"How's the flying reporter of the Atkinson News?" he cried.
Tim looked about him quickly. There wasn't a chance in the world for an
escape. He'd have to face the music and he wondered if Dugan's words had
been intended to get him into trouble.
"So!" the words hissed from Lopez' lips, "you're a flying reporter."
There was no use in denying and Tim felt that he might have a better
chance if he told the truth. Without hesitation, he told who he was and
why he had invaded the stronghold of the rebel chief.
"Well, well, well," drawled Lopez, "now isn't that nice of you to come
down and see me. I'll be only too glad to pose for you. Suppose you get
your camera out and take some pictures."
Tim wondered what the rebel's game was but he obeyed the orders and
snapped Lopez in half a dozen different poses. The rebel leader's vanity
irritated him and he would like to have punched his stubby little nose
but that would only have spelled more trouble. When Lopez was satisfied
that enough pictures had been taken, he turned accusing eyes on Dugan.
"And now Mr. Dugan," he said in a half whisper, "I thank you for telling
me who this man is. He's not going back to the border and neither are
you."
"What do you mean?" cried the daredevil "That you're not going back to
the border. That's plain isn't it. Both of you know too much now.
Besides, I never fully trusted you Dugan and this is a good excuse to
put you out of the way."
"You can't get away with that," cried Dugan.
"Oh, I can't? Well, who's to stop me?" There seemed to be no immediate
answer to that question and Tim and Dugan proceeded down the road in the
direction of the village, two dirty little soldiers with drawn bayonets
at their heels.
When they reached the plaza at Cedros, General Lopez ordered them thrown
into the village jail, a filthy one-room structure with high, barred
windows.
"You might have given me a break, Dugan," said Tim when the door had
clanged shut on them. "There wasn't any special reason for your shouting
my name all over the countryside, was there?"
"I'm mighty sorry about that, Tim," replied the daredevil and there was
a convincing ring of sincerity to his words, "I was surprised to see you
and didn't realize what I was saying."
"Do you think Lopez will keep us here long?"
"Think? I don't have to think. After what he said back there at the
field, it may be curtains for us."
"He wouldn't dare put us out of the way for good," protested Tim.
"Yes, he would," replied the daredevil. "Lopez is in a desperate
situation. If you took those pictures back to the border he would be
instantly recognized when he tried to make his getaway. He'll go to any
end to keep his pictures from being broadcast all over the U. S. A., and
especially along the border."
"That's just what Captain Talbot of the border patrol at Nogales told
me," said Tim. "He advised me not to make the trip down here and it
commences to look like he was right."
"Talbot's got some fine flyers," said Dugan dryly. "One of them chased
me for fifteen minutes when I crossed the border and shot my wings so
full of holes I thought I was flying in a sieve."
Their conversation was interrupted when the door swung open and an
officer ordered them to follow him. They were escorted across the plaza
to the only hotel in the village, a straggling adobe structure where the
rebel chieftain made his headquarters.
General Lopez wasted no words when they faced him.
"My council of war," he began as he pointed to a half dozen grinning
officers at his side, "has decided that you are dangerous to our cause.
This man," and he pointed at Tim, "has made a deliberate attempt to
jeopardize my own life, while you," and he snapped the words at Dugan,
"know too much for your own good."
The revolutionary leader paused for a moment to give weight to his next
words.
"Therefore," he said slowly, enjoying every moment of the little drama
in which he was the chief character, "the council has decreed that you
shall die at sunrise tomorrow."