A GLIDE TO SAFETY
The _Hustle_ was hurling herself through the night at a hundred
miles an hour. The roar of the great Kulnoch motor filled the air;
and through it sounded a sharp whine as the wind struck the planes.
The powerful search-light bored a hole through intense darkness
ahead, now and then showing a mountain peak; at sight of which Hike
shot the machine up so fast that she seemed about to turn turtle.
Sometimes the light, turned down on earth, picked out a mining town,
with everyone asleep; sometimes, a broad river, shining in the light,
between threatening rock walls.
On the _Hustle_ dashed, never hesitating, over valleys and patches
of yellow desert, from which a warm wind rose to flutter the planes;
over hills and forests and long railroad-trestles where rails flashed
in the light.
Hike had to think about a hundred things, but most of all he thought
about keeping the _Hustle_ going _on_—on to Washington—on to save
Martin Priest! This was no time to lose his nerve or his wits. On; no
matter how much his eyes smarted and watered in the wind. On; though
his hands got cold and cramped, as they clutched the levers; and he
seemed deaf for life, in the ceaseless smashing sound of the motor.
He had to make the _Hustle_ hustle!
He remembered a hundred parts of the machine all at once. He
studied out where he was, on a map that unrolled from one rod upon
another, and avoided bad hill-passes. He kept an eye on the dial
of his aneroid barometer, strapped to his wrist like a watch. The
barometer showed how high they were, and he never let the machine
drop below two thousand feet, if he could help it; and so avoided
the bad air-currents near earth. He watched the engine feed, tried
the carbureter, saw that the fuel-mixture was right. He looked back
at the rudder, and saw that it answered his lever. Most of all, he
studied his roadway—the air.
Though he was heading as due east as possible, a powerful north wind
was driving him southward before it. Sometimes the wind, suddenly
charging from a great gap between two mountain peaks, tossed the
_Hustle_ like a leaf; picked it up and threw it almost against a
hill; then let it drop two hundred feet.
The sailor of small boats is rather busy, among heavy seas, when a
sudden flaw of wind strikes his sail. He has to keep the tiller on
the jiggle, watch the mainsail, and be ready to let go the mainsheet
almost before he can think. But sailing a small boat is as much
easier than driving an aeroplane through uneven air-currents as
sliding down hill is easier than sailing.
Hike had always to be ready to coax the _Hustle_ up again, when she
struck an air-pocket and fell like an elevator with a broken cable.
He had to guess at what sort of currents were ahead of him, and be
ready to round each tiny whirlwind as soon as he felt it slap at the
planes.
He was too busy to be frightened, ever. Poodle had more time for
that. Poodle kept the aeronautical map moving from one roller to
another; he swung the search-light’s glare from hill to valley, and
looked after the flow of oil from its tank to the distributing pipes,
but mostly he sat there and watched the world jump up at them from
below. Half a dozen times, when they seemed to be dashing down to the
rocky ground, he felt quite certain they were killed, and wondered
how he could jump and save himself. Just the same, he kept up a grin,
for Hike to see when he glanced back, and, whenever Poodle slapped
his arms to keep warm, he tried to be as cheery a clown as possible,
so that “good ole Hike’ll have somethin’ ’appy to look at.” He busied
himself with heating some coffee and broth, on the electric stove at
the side of the platform, and made Hike gulp down a little of it. It
was a bit curious to look down from the bubbling aluminum coffee-pot
to a valley a thousand feet below, glaring in the search-light.
When the sky grew light with dawn, in front of them, and the hills
looked cheerless in the early gray, Hike called Poodle to the seat
beside him, and gave him the last of several lessons in aviation.
Finally, he let Poodle drive her, for a while. Leaning against a pile
of blankets and food on the platform, he stretched out his cramped
legs, for a short rest.
The clouds promised rain and a bad wind, so Hike soon took the
levers again. He made out by his map, soon after dawn, that they
were over Kansas. They were coming to the end of the hilly country,
into the plains; speeding over a hundred miles an hour. Hike was
just planning to push her up to a hundred and fifty an hour when he
made out something that caused him to swoop closer to earth, and
hastily slow her down, with his foot-throttle. The shock almost threw
Poodle out of his seat, and sent a can of coffee hurtling across the
freight-platform.
Hike had seen a man and woman, ahead of them, riding madly across a
stretch of prairie, toward a river. Pursuing them were a dozen men,
also on horseback, shouting and shooting. The man and woman were not
over half a mile ahead, and the pursuers were gaining.
Hike dropped, stopped his motor, landed just ahead of the fleeing
couple, on a butte overlooking a deep narrow cut through which a
river, swollen by recent rain, was raging. As the _Hustle_ landed,
the storm broke out in thunder.
The fleeing couple galloped up, shouting through the rain, “Help us!”
“What’s matter?” cried Poodle. “Get aboard!”
“Horse-thieves—there—kidnapped young lady—my sweetheart—wanted make
her marry man—I got her back—they want lynch me,” panted the man, as
he vaulted from his horse. He helped down the girl and lifted her on
the freight-platform of the _Hustle_. He was a clean, decent-looking
chap, Hike thought, and the story was probably true, with those wild
bandits chasing the couple.
Hike switched on the spark—but the engine did not start. Through
the rain the pursuers could be seen, galloping toward them. A rifle
bullet sang through the _Hustle’s_ planes.
“What’s matter?” Poodle yelled again.
Hike shouted, “Dunno—won’t start. Climb out—we’ll _glide_ across
river!”
They pushed the machine to the down slope of the butte, toward the
river, and swung back into their seats. Down the slope she ran, rose
a little, and glided out into the air, over the river.
But their start had been bad. The ground had been wet, their shove
short. The _Hustle_ was settling down, threatening to drop into the
river. They had to rise, to get over the hilly bank on the other side.
Thinking it all out, in a second, while they were soaring, Hike
decided to lighten their load. “Deflect elevating plane when get
over!” he howled to Poodle, and then leaped from his seat, out into
the air, and dropped down into the river.
He was badly shaken up, but he crawled out on the farther bank, and
rushed up the hilly river-edge. He saw the _Hustle_ sail across the
river, just grazing the hill, and then disappear beyond the hill,
safe. On the side of the river from which they had just come, the
pursuing men had already ridden up to the top of the butte. Hike
hastened to the safely stopped machine and, diving down beside her
engine, tried the spark.
Poodle climbed out and stood on guard, with his revolver ready.
“Gwan up the hill. See they don’t ford river,” said Hike, and Poodle,
his plump legs going like bicycle-wheel spokes, dashed up to the rise
overlooking the water.
In the rain that pelted the river till its surface looked like little
hills and valleys, and soaked him to the skin, Poodle lay on his
stomach atop the hill, and watched the pursuers stop, take council,
then ride down to the water and put their frightened horses at the
rushing river.
He didn’t want to shoot—he didn’t want to take a chance of killing
any one, reflected soft-hearted young Poodle. But he looked back
at the frightened young man and woman who, from their seats in the
_Hustle_, were watching Hike work over the engine, seeming even more
frightened by the fight than interested in their first aeroplane.
Then he looked back at the pursuers, grimly; took aim at the big
black-bearded man who led the bunch, and shouted down, “Halt!”
The man, urging his horse into the river, looked up, amazed, then
grinned to see a boy trying to keep _him_ back! He didn’t know
that the boy, instead of being frightened, was doing some grinning
himself, thinking, “Gee—wish he didn’t look so much like Martin
Priest—but here goes. Going to be a surprise-party, right here.” He
shot at the leader’s horse three times, paused, saw the animal topple
over into the river, and then began firing at the horses of the
others—sorry for the animals, but never stopping pumping lead into
them.
But the men were like savages. While he was firing at one section,
another bunch rode down a little farther along, and began to ford.
Then Poodle heard a “Bang, bang, bang!” near him, and saw the young
man whom they were rescuing lying on his stomach, holding a revolver.
The young man seemed happy, now that he was in action. Stopping only
to yell, “The Cap’n, yonder, ordered me on the firing line,” he began
to shoot without stopping.
But their revolvers were not good for the long range, and it
would have taken Gatling guns to stop that crowd of desperate
cattle-rustlers.
The black-bearded leader had run back up the bank, across the river.
He mounted the horse which the young man had abandoned when he got in
the tetrahedral. Again he was fording, yelling like a wild man.
Some of the bunch were across. Poodle and the young man ran back
to the _Hustle_, and continued firing from its shelter as the
horse-thieves circled about, discharging their rifles. Hike kept
working as calmly and swiftly over the engine as though he were in
the aerodrome.
Suddenly the bandits turned and galloped away, as an infernal
cracking, like a Gatling gun, came from the _Hustle_. Hike had
started the engine.
“Quick, in!” shouted Hike, and the three swung into their seats.
The _Hustle_ ran, darted up and they soared, over the heads of the
bandits, who shot at them wildly and vainly.
The machine never stopped till she had reached the young man’s town,
fifty miles farther on. There they descended in the town-park, the
young man and his rescued lady climbed out, and started to thank Hike
and Poodle.
But about the time they had got out three words, they stopped, for
the _Hustle_ was darting away over the town, at a hundred and fifty
miles an hour, to make up time.
“Them’s nice boys,” said the young man.
“Lovely,” said the young lady. “They must be going awful far in that
contraption—maybe as far as Chicago!”