When Tim and Ralph parted in the foothills of the Great Smokies, Ralph
took up his search for George Mitchell, pilot of the missing westbound
mail.
Throughout the morning Ralph conducted his fruitless quest and when noon
came he was forced to turn back from the mountains and seek a ranch or
village where he could refuel his plane. Ralph's ship was slightly
smaller than Tim's and consequently had a longer cruising radius with
the same fuel load.
Ten miles north of the regular air mail route lay the village of Rubio
and Ralph set the mail plane down in a pasture east of the town. The
noise of the plane had drawn the attention of the villagers and they
swarmed to the field.
Ralph quickly explained his needs and the owner of the village garage
brought out a truck loaded with gasoline. Refueling of the mail ship was
soon accomplished and Ralph then hastened into the village where he went
to the only restaurant and managed to secure a good, warm meal. He
ordered a large lunch prepared and packed and by the time he had
finished his dinner the lunch was ready. He paid for the food and walked
back to the plane.
Several of the village boys volunteered to hold the wings while Ralph
warmed the motor. He gave the new fuel a thorough test and then
signalled for the boys to let go.
The propeller sliced through the air and its blast created a small
blizzard which hid the crowd of villagers in a smother of snow.
The mail ship gathered momentum, bumped over the uneven ground and
finally bounced into the air.
Ralph headed back for the air mail route to resume his search. Back and
forth he cruised, confining his search to the foothills of the mountains
for there was slight chance that Mitchell would have reached the Great
Smokies.
The afternoon wore on and Ralph's hopes of finding the missing flyer
that day lessened. It was slow and tedious work cruising over the
rolling hills whose slopes were covered by dense growths of trees,
principally pines.
If Mitchell had come down in one of the forests it might be weeks before
he would be found.
Ralph was speculating on how long his fuel would last when he saw an
irregular gash in the tops of the trees ahead. He swung the plane lower.
Something had taken off the tops of half a dozen tall, scraggly pines.
It looked as though some giant of the sky had paused a moment, swung a
mighty sickle, and then gone on.
A quarter of a mile further Ralph saw a repetition of the broken tree
tops. Then he caught sight of the missing mail plane. The tail of the
ship was sticking straight up in the air; the nose was buried in a deep
drift at the base of a mighty pine. The propeller was splintered and the
undercarriage gone but otherwise the plane did not appear to have been
badly damaged.
Ralph gunned his motor hard and watched for some sign of the pilot near
the wrecked plane. For ten minutes he circled the spot before looking
for a landing place for his own ship. In one of the valleys between the
foothills he found a small meadow that looked as though it would serve
as an emergency landing field. He took careful note of the position of
the wrecked plane and then drifted down to attempt the landing.
The meadow was bordered by pines that stuck their spires into the sky
and Ralph thought for a time that it would be impossible to avoid their
scraggly tops and get into the meadow. He finally found a break in the
pines and sideslipped through. Then he straightened out and fishtailed
down into the meadow. The pines had protected the meadow from the
driving north wind of the night before and the snow had not drifted.
Ralph taxied the mail plane up under the shelter of the trees, lashed it
securely, and then prepared for his trip to the wrecked plane.
The young reporter took his package of food he had had prepared at
Rubio, ropes and a hand axe and started the climb up the foothills. The
snow had drifted but little and he made good progress. In little more
than half an hour he reached the scene of the wreck of the air mail.
Ralph shouted lustily, but there was no response. The tail of the big
ship was pointing straight into the sky. Ralph could see that Mitchell
was not in the pilot's cockpit.
Then he gasped with astonishment. The door of the mail compartment was
open.
Ralph ran across the small clearing and hastily climbed the wings and on
up to the mail compartment. One glance was sufficient.
The sack of registered mail was missing!
There was no sign of a struggle at the plane and there was no response
to his frantic shouts.
Ralph sat down in the mail cockpit to think things over. His first
thought had been that the mail had been robbed. He discarded that belief
and decided that Mitchell, possibly unharmed in the crackup had taken
the precious sack of registered mail and was attempting to find his way
out of the forest and make for the nearest town.
Ralph dropped down from the fuselage and started a search in the snow.
It was light and powdery and had drifted just enough to make the
detection of footprints difficult. The reporter made a careful search
but it was not until he was on the far side of the plane that his
efforts were rewarded.
Footprints, almost concealed by the snow which had fallen later, were
dimly visible.
Ralph, eager and alert, took up the trail and soon had lost sight of the
wreck of the westbound air mail.
The footprints zig-zagged this way and that for it had been night when
Mitchell had deserted the plane and started to make his way out of the
forest.
Ralph plowed steadily through the snow. The forest was silent except for
the occasional call of a snowbird and Ralph felt a mighty loneliness
around him. The shadows were lengthening rapidly and Ralph pushed
forward with renewed determination.
At intervals the reporter stopped and listened intently for some sound.
It was possible that Mitchell might call for help.
Sundown found the reporter far from the wreck of the air mail, weaving
his way along the dim trail. Ralph, although little versed in woodcraft,
could read certain signs in the dim footprints. He could see that
Mitchell had been tiring rapidly. The steps were more uneven and once or
twice the air mail flyer had stopped beside some tree to rest.
The light in the forest was fading rapidly and Ralph advanced as fast as
possible. Once he lost the dim trail and had to retrace his steps. He
begrudged the lost time and when he found Mitchell's trail started at a
dog-trot, but with the coming of the night he was forced to slow down.
The reporter stopped in a small clearing and called lustily through
cupped hands. Again and again he shouted and at last he thought he heard
a faint reply. Perhaps it was only an echo. He called again and a voice,
far away, answered.
Confident that he was near the missing pilot, Ralph hurried forward,
bending almost double in order to follow the dim trail. He stopped every
few hundred feet and shouted. Each time the reply came clearer and
stronger.
Ralph came out on the bank of a small stream. Below, on the rocks beside
the creek bed, he saw the crouched form of the air mail flyer.
"George! George!" cried Ralph.
"Down here," came the reply. "Take it easy or you'll slip and twist your
ankle just like I did."
In less than a minute Ralph was beside the man he had been hunting and
Mitchell told him of the events preceding the crash and how he had
attempted to escape from the forest and reach some habitation.
"The storm struck so quickly I didn't have a chance to escape," said the
air mail flyer as Ralph worked over the twisted ankle. "The snow and ice
collected on the wings and forced me down. Maybe you saw where I took
the tops off the trees before I finally cracked."
"Sure did," said Ralph. "Matter of fact, the only way I found your ship
was through seeing those broken tree tops. They gave me the clue that a
plane had been in trouble. A little further along I saw the tail of your
ship sticking up in the air."
"I took a real flop," went on the mail flyer. "Just nosed right straight
down and smacked the old earth. I ducked just in time and outside a few
bruises wasn't hurt. Managed to get the sack of registered stuff out and
figured I could get out of the woods and reach some ranchhouse or the
railroad. Then I fell over this bank, twisted my right ankle, and I've
been here ever since."
Ralph chopped some dry wood from a dead tree nearby and soon had a fire
blazing merrily among the rocks. He made the mail flyer as comfortable
as possible, warmed the lunch he had brought with him and they both
enjoyed the meal, the first Mitchell had eaten in twenty-four hours.
After the lunch had been devoured, Ralph turned his attention to the
injured ankle. It was a bad wrench but he managed to fix a makeshift
bandage that held it firm. After that was done he picked up a blazing
piece of firewood and struck out into the night. In a few minutes he was
back with a forked branch which he informed Mitchell could be used as a
crutch.
Ralph picked up the sack of registered mail and with his assistance
Mitchell managed to negotiate the steep slope of the creek valley. When
they were in the woods Ralph went back and extinguished the fire.
The reporter returned and helped support the mail flyer as they started
the slow and painful journey to the plane which was to be their means of
escape.
Mitchell did the best he could but his ankle throbbed incessantly and
they were forced to rest every few hundred feet.
After an hour and a half of the gruelling work, Mitchell was exhausted
and Ralph decided that it would be best for them to wait until morning
before continuing their journey.
He selected a clearing which had only one large tree in the center.
Brushing away the snow he cut enough pine branches for a makeshift bed
and then constructed a barrier of branches to shield them from the wind.
A fire was started and Mitchell, weak and chilled from his exertions,
laid down beside it. Ralph massaged the swollen ankle until the pain had
eased and the mail flyer fell asleep.
The reporter busied himself securing enough firewood to last until
morning and after that task was completed laid down beside Mitchell in
the fragrant pine bows. He dropped into a deep sleep of exhaustion and
had slept for some time when he awoke with a terrifying fear gripping
his heart.
Blazing eyes were staring at him from the edge of the forest; eyes that
burned their way into his mind. A whole ring of them were closing in,
creeping ever nearer the fire.
For a moment the terror of the situation held Ralph motionless. Then he
leaped into action.
The fire had died low but there was still a few burning embers. He
seized the ends of several of these and hurled them toward the hungry
eyes.
The flaming brands made fiery arcs through the night. Some of them
dropped sizzling into the snow; others struck dark bodies.
Hoarse cries shattered the midnight stillness as the wolves fled before
Ralph's sudden attack. In a second it was over and when Mitchell wanted
to know what had happened, Ralph felt as though he had been dreaming.
"Wolves were closing in on us when I woke up," he explained. "For a
minute I was too scared to do anything. Then I remembered that they were
afraid of fire and I hurled half a dozen embers from our campfire at
them."
"I never thought of wolves," said the mail flyer. "Good thing you woke
up or we might have become 'A Great Mystery' or some such thing. It
wouldn't take those timber wolves long to finish a fellow."
Ralph agreed that the wolves were dangerous and piled new fuel on the
fire.
Mitchell still had his heavy service automatic and Ralph appropriated
the weapon.
The bright light from the fire kept Ralph awake for a time but after an
hour and a half of struggling against fatigue his eyes closed.
Stealthy movements in the forest failed to arouse him and slinking
figures emerged from the timber. The wolves were advancing again.
A dozen of the hungry, grey beasts of prey crept nearer and nearer the
fire. In an ever narrowing circle they closed in upon their victims,
treading lightly lest they make some noise.
Mitchell, exhausted from his long battle through the snow and the pain
of his injured ankle, was breathing deeply.
The reporter had fallen asleep sitting up and his head was bent forward
as though he was in thought. In his right hand was the heavy .45 caliber
automatic.
Closer and closer came the wolves.
Forty feet.
The fire crackled as it bit into a pine knot and the beasts stopped
their advance. But Ralph failed to wake up and the deadly circle drew
nearer to the little camp in the center of the clearing.
Thirty feet.
Mitchell stirred restlessly and then relapsed into the deep sleep that
claimed him.
Another moment and the wolves would spring, their glistening, bared
teeth ripping at their victims. They crept closer, crouched for the
fatal spring.
The fire was lower, its light making only a dim glow, and through this
could be seen the bright eyes of the wolves.
From the heavens came the deep thunder of the motor of the westbound
mail. Its echoes filled the night and Ralph awakened instantly.
The wolves, startled by the sudden burst of sound, were motionless.
In the brief second before they leaped, Ralph threw his body across
Mitchell to shield the injured flyer from the savage onslaught.
The automatic in his hand blazed, shattering the darkness with shafts of
flame.
Bullets thudded into the gray shapes which swirled around the dim
campfire.
A huge timber wolf landed on top of Ralph. He felt its hot breath, heard
the throaty growl of triumph, felt the muzzle seek his throat.
With desperate effort and strength born of terror, Ralph pressed the
muzzle of the automatic against the shaggy grey fur. The shock of the
heavy bullet distracted the wolf and it ceased its efforts to kill Ralph
and slunk into the shadows.
The reporter crouched over Mitchell, waiting for more onslaughts. The
wolf cries continued and Ralph put more fuel on the fire.
In the light from the leaping flames he saw the explanation. His first
bullets had brought down two of the huge beasts and their companions,
scenting the fresh blood, had turned from their attack and were tearing
the stricken wolves to pieces.
Mitchell handed a fresh clip of cartridges to Ralph and the reporter
sent another hail of lead in the direction of the wolves.
Fresh cries of pain filled the night but it was not until Ralph had
brought down two more of the great beasts that the others slunk away and
disappeared in the timber.
"How did they happen to get so close?" Mitchell asked.
"I must have fallen asleep," admitted Ralph. "First thing I heard was
the roar of the westbound plane going over and then I saw a whole circle
of hungry eyes looking at us. They were crouched, ready to spring, when
the sound of the plane distracted them. It gave me just time enough to
get into action with the gun."
"Good thing you did or all that would have been left of us by morning
would be soup bones," grinned Mitchell. "I've had all the thrills I want
for one night. I'm not going to risk going to sleep again."
The reporter and the mail flyer sat up and talked for the remainder of
the night.
At the first lightening of the sky, they resumed their journey toward
the plane. In the clearing they left the bodies of four wolves and
further along the trail they found the body of a fifth, the one which
had leaped upon Ralph.
They finally reached the wreck of the mail plane and continued until
they came to the clearing where Ralph had left his ship.
"Not any too much room to get out of this pocket," commented Mitchell as
he surveyed the tall pines which enclosed the valley.
"I had to fish tail in and dodge a few trees doing it," replied Ralph.
"But if I got in I guess I'll be able to get out all right."
Mitchell rested in the snow while Ralph unlashed the plane and turned it
around. Then the reporter boosted the flyer into the mail cockpit and
prepared for the take-off. He primed the motor and felt that luck was
with him when it started easily.
Mitchell leaned out of the mail cockpit and shouted back at Ralph.
"I know this ship," he cried. "Let her get a good run. Then pull back
hard and she'll climb almost straight up. Don't hold her in a climb for
more than two hundred feet or she may slip back on back and go into a
tail spin."
Ralph nodded his thanks and made a final check to see that the plane was
ready for the attempt to get out of the valley.
Tall pines loomed on every side. Straight ahead there was a slight break
in the tree tops he hoped to be able to slide through. It would require
skilful piloting but they had passed through so many ordeals in the last
few hours that Ralph felt himself capable of meeting the emergency.
The reporter leaned ahead and tapped Mitchell on the shoulder.
"All set?" he asked.
Mitchell nodded.
"Then hang on," cried Ralph and he opened the throttle and sent the
plane skimming through the snow.
The barrier of pines rose ahead of the propeller. Ralph waited until the
last second and then jerked the stick back. The wheels lifted off the
ground and the ship flashed into the air.
It was going to be close but it looked like they would clear the trees
and wing their way eastward in safety. Ralph whipped the plane through
the narrow opening in the tree tops. They were almost clear when one
wing brushed the snow-burdened tips of the pine. It was just enough to
throw the plane out of balance. They lost speed and the nose started
down.
Ralph had visions of being impaled on the tops of the trees and he
worked frantically to right the plane. Lower and lower they slipped.
Then the motor overcame the pull of gravity and they resumed their
climb. Two tall trees barred their way and Ralph banked sharply.
There was a sudden jar as though some giant had reached up to pluck the
plane from the sky. Then it was over and they were soaring towards the
clouds.
Mitchell, who had been watching their progress, relaxed and slumped down
into the mail cockpit.
Ralph, perplexed by the last jarring sensation as they cleared the final
barrier, wondered what had happened to the ship. The wing tips had not
been damaged and the tail assembly was all right.
Determined to find out what had taken place, Ralph leaned far out of the
cockpit in order to see the landing gear. One glance was sufficient. The
left wheel had been smashed.
Ralph slid back into his seat and gave his attention to the handling of
the plane. He had more than an hour in which to decide how he would land
at Atkinson.
The sky cleared and the sun peeped over the horizon. The last snow of
winter would soon be little more than a memory but it would be a bitter
one for the air mail with two planes wrecked.
Atkinson was just waking up when Ralph roared over and circled the
airport. He swooped low to attract attention and first on the field was
Tim, who had been awakened by the sound of the plane.
"One wheel of Ralph's ship is smashed!" cried Hunter.
"And I'll bet he hasn't got a whole lot of gas left," said Tim.
"What will we do?" asked Carson, who had returned to the field.
"Take a wheel up to him," replied Tim.
Turning to the field manager, he asked, "Have you got a spare wheel that
will fit that ship?"
"Two of them," said Hunter. "I'll have them in in less than a minute."
He hastened to the parts room and returned with a spare wheel. Together
they ran to hangar No. 5 which was the home of the _Good News_. The
plane, repainted and with its motor and rigging carefully checked, was
ready to go again.
"You handle the controls," Tim told Hunter, "and I'll do the plane
changing stunt."
Hunter warmed up the _Good News_ and Tim secured the extra equipment he
needed. He tossed a coil of rope into the forward cockpit and put an
assortment of wrenches of various sizes into the pockets of his
tight-fitting leather jacket. Then he vaulted into the cockpit and
signalled for Hunter to open the throttle.
The _Good News_ flipped through the open door of the hangar, made a
short run, and then, its powerful motor thrumming steadily, nosed
skyward in a steep climb.
Hunter took the _Good News_ alongside the slower mail plane and Tim
signalled to Ralph what he intended to attempt. Mitchell, who was now
aware of the danger of their situation, was watching anxiously from the
mail cockpit of Ralph's plane. Himself an expert flier, he was fuming
impatiently at his helplessness.
Hunter and Ralph coordinated the speed of their planes and Hunter
gradually edged over the other plane.
Tim made one end of the rope fast to the cockpit and to the other he
tied the spare wheel. He lowered the wheel over the side of the fuselage
and slowly let it down until it was just above Mitchell. The mail flyer
reached up and took the wheel, untying the rope to which it had been
fastened.
Then Tim pulled the rope back, knotted it in half a dozen places, and
tossed it overboard again.
"Take it easy," he warned Hunter as he unfolded his long legs and eased
them over the side of the cockpit. The air was cold and clinging to a
swaying rope one thousand feet above the ground while traveling ninety
miles an hour was no picnic. Little by little Tim slid down the swaying
rope.
Ralph watched the controls of his plane like a hawk, creeping nearer and
nearer to Tim.
The gap between Tim and the upper wing of the mail plane
lessened--almost vanished. Then the flying reporter let go and sprawled
on the wing, his hands clutching the forward wing.
The drop had knocked the breath from his body and he gasped painfully.
After a short rest he felt his strength returning and started edging
toward the center of the ship. Ralph held the plane steady and Tim made
good progress. In less than five minutes he was in the mail cockpit with
Mitchell.
In a few words the injured pilot told Tim what had happened, of his own
crash and attempt to get out of the timber with the registered mail, how
Ralph had found him and later fought off the wolves and how they had
smashed a wheel in getting clear of the trees surrounding the valley.
Tim told Mitchell that he had found Lewis, the other missing pilot, and
brought him safely to Atkinson. That done, Tim took the wheel and slide
out of the cockpit and down on to the landing gear.
The axle was only slightly bent and was still strong enough to stand the
strain of landing in the snow. Tim worked hard to get the lock nut off
the smashed wheel for it had jammed. He finally worked it loose and then
dropped the damaged wheel on to the flying field far below.
The new wheel slid into place and he managed to get the lock nut on. The
wheel wobbled a little but it would permit Ralph to land in safety.
Tim clambered back into the mail cockpit and motioned for Ralph to land.
The pilot brought the mail ship down to an easy landing and taxied up to
the row of hangars where they were met by the impatient managing editor.
A photographer was waiting and he snapped half a dozen pictures as Ralph
and Tim helped Mitchell from the plane.
The flyer was sent in to town for treatment at a hospital and Tim and
Ralph accompanied the managing editor to the _News_ office.
"Don't you want something to eat?" asked Carson as they reached the
office.
"I'll wait," grinned Ralph. "If I eat now I'll go to sleep and you'll
never wake me up. I'll write the story first and eat afterward."