It was a miscellaneous collection of men who stood around the ship.
Three of them were very well dressed and looked like business men.
Others, mostly in flannel shirts, were slim, hard-faced, youngish
fellows. Several were foreigners. The rougher-looking element paid most
attention to the great ship, but it was a noticeable fact that all of
them spent more time appraising the flyers than they did in satisfying
their curiosity regarding the bomber.
“How do you do, gentlemen, and just where are we?” inquired Graves
calmly as he removed his coveralls.
There was a few seconds pause as everybody took in his uniform. It was
garnished with several rows of ribbons across the front of the blouse,
the flyers noticed.
“This is in Farran County--nearest town Elm Hill,” returned a burly,
hard-faced man who was wearing a coat over his flannel shirt, and
loosely tied necktie. He was somewhat older than any one else there
except the three men who were dressed so meticulously.
“How far is Elm Hill from here?”
It was Broughton who asked that question.
“Twenty miles. What’s the matter--have trouble?”
It was the hard-faced man again, and he glanced from face to face
quickly as he asked the question. Two of the other men had walked to the
end of a wing, inspecting the ship. The eyes of the others were
constantly flitting from the ship to its passengers, and they listened
closely.
“Yes. This ---- engine here went flooey on us. We’re lucky to get down
alive,” replied Hinkley.
Both flyers were trying to pick Hayden out of the dozen men who
surrounded them, but somehow none of them seemed exactly to fit their
mental pictures of the noted criminal. Several of the crowd were
conversing in low voices.
“Where were you going?” inquired one of the well-dressed men on the edge
of the circle. He was small, wore glasses, and his thin face had a
fox-like look about it that gave him a subtly untrustworthy appearance.
“Inasmuch as it seems necessary to throw ourselves on your hospitality
for a while, it may be well to introduce ourselves,” Graves said
quietly. In some uncanny way his dignity and competence seemed to
radiate from him, increased by the prestige of his uniform. Both the
airmen felt its influence.
“I am Colonel Graves, of the United States Army Air Service. These are
Lieutenants Broughton and Hinkley. We are flying from Langham Field,
Virginia, to Dayton, Ohio, on important army business. I trust that we
will not trespass on your hospitality too long, but I fear we will have
to dismantle the ship and send it home by rail. We can’t take off out of
this field. We are lucky to have had such an experienced pilot as
Lieutenant Broughton to land us. We did not expect to find so many
people in this deserted place.”
A portly, fleshy-faced man with small eyes set in rolls of fat shoved
his way forward. He had been talking to the fox-faced little man.
“Just a little fishing party up here,” he said with an attempt of
heartiness. He was dressed in a rich-looking brown suit, and a huge
sparkler gleamed from his elaborate silk cravat. He was smoking a big
cigar.
He darted a warning look from his small eyes as two younger, roughly
dressed men in the background allowed their heretofore guarded voices to
become a bit too loud. One man caught the look, and ceased abruptly.
“It certainly is a good country for it,” replied Graves pleasantly. “I
trust we will not impose on you too much----”
“Not at all, not at all,” the stout man assured him, but the looks of
the others belied his words.
Groups had drawn off a little way and were conversing in undertones. All
the men seemed to have poker faces--there was no hint of expression in
them, although both flyers, as they removed their coveralls, caught
disquieting as well as disquieted looks thrown their way. Graves
continued to converse with the fat man. The tough-looking customer who
had originally joined the conversation stood by himself, meditatively
chewing a blade of grass. His huge right hand, which had been in his
coat pocket at the start, was lifted to his jutting, prize-fighter’s
chin, while his expressionless gray eyes dwelt steadily on the airmen.
“Quite some ship, eh? It’s a big reskel!” The dialect of a New York
east-side Jew came familiarly to the flyers’ ears. It was a small,
hook-nosed, black-haired man, whose shirt, tie and putteed legs all gave
an impression of personal nicety even here in the wilderness. His face
was somewhat pasty, and his lips very thin. He did not look over
twenty-five.
“It sure is,” Hinkley assured him, throwing both pairs of coveralls into
the cockpit of the ship.
Neither of the flyers wore a blouse, but were arrayed in O. D. shirts,
breeches and boots. Both wore a sagging belt and holster, with the butt
of a Colt .45 protruding from each container. Their garb and general
appearance fitted the wildness of their surroundings perfectly. Graves
had his automatic out of sight, in his pocket. The sight of the guns the
flyers wore caused additional low-voiced conversation on the part of the
onlookers.
The hard-faced American turned and started for the cabin without a word.
Hinkley and Broughton walked over toward Graves.
Every one but the fat man started to walk around the ship, examining it
with interest. Broughton started to walk toward the lower edge of the
clearing. He had an idea that he wanted to verify by pacing off the
distance and examining the rim of trees on the lower end.
Graves was talking casually to the fat man, describing the flight, when
a loud exclamation and a sudden burst of conversation caused him to
turn. The machine guns had been noted for the first time.
“You fly well armed,” said the tall, stooping Jew nastily. Every one
else was silent, awaiting Graves’ reply.
“The ship is from Langham Field, where all the planes are equipped for
bombing and other tests against battle-ships,” was the easy reply.
Hinkley, who had been wondering whether Graves would think of that
excuse, smiled admiringly.
“Doesn’t miss many bets,” he told himself. The fat man’s careful
geniality was suddenly gone. While the knot of men who were now
clustered close to the rear cockpit of the ship engaged in further
low-voiced conversation his little eyes roved from nose to tail of the
ship, coming back to rest on Graves’ untroubled face.
The man who had gone to the cabin came back over the hill. Another man
was with him--a powerfully built fellow who towered over his companion.
Every one became suddenly silent, as they came nearer. Hinkley knew
instinctively that this was Hayden.
* * * * *
His deeply lined, somewhat fleshy countenance could have served as a
model for the face of a fallen angel. The wide, cruel mouth, high
forehead and square jaw all indicated strength, and yet suffering and
dissipation were graven there. His eyes, as he approached the ship, were
in direct contrast to the rest of his face. They were large and
bright--the eyes of a dreamer, and they almost succeeded in
counteracting the cruel force of his face. Hinkley had a glimpse of the
man’s magnetism in those eyes.
“How do you do, colonel?” he said quietly.
His voice was deep and rich. He removed the slouch hat he wore,
revealing thick black hair sprinkled with gray. It strengthened the
impression that he had Slav blood in him, for his complexion was dark
and his eyes liquid black.
“We dropped in on you unwillingly, but we are fortunate to find people
here. My name is Graves.”
“I am glad to know you.”
He did not offer his hand, Hinkley noted. He stood quietly, looking at
the ship. Broughton came back at this juncture, his eyes taking in the
massive figure of the newcomer with slow appraisal.
There is an unconscious respect and curiosity engendered in even the
most unemotional person by any man who is noted--or notorious. A great
criminal, a great artist, a champion chess-player, the survivor of a
widely heralded accident--anything unusual draws its meed of attention.
Hayden, without the benefit of his reputation, was an arresting man.
With it, he repaid study.
“I am very sorry, colonel, but we have but little food here--scarcely
enough for our party. I will have some one guide you down to Elm Hill,
where you will be more comfortable,” Hayden said at length.
“We have a little food in the ship. It’s getting late, and we’ll just
sleep out here under the wings,” returned Graves quietly.
Suddenly a devil peered forth from Hayden’s eyes. The softness was gone,
and savagery was there instead.
Graves looked into that queerly demoniac face without emotion.
Apparently he did not feel the sudden tenseness that had every one in
its grip. All felt the battle of wills going on there--that there was
something underneath which did not appear on the surface.
“I think I’ll turn the ship around and head it into the wind,” came
Broughton’s quiet voice.
It broke the tension. Graves turned to Broughton and Hinkley.
“I think it would be best. We’ll give you a hand on the wing--it’s a
narrow place to turn in,” he remarked casually.
Hinkley primed both motors from underneath, and Broughton got into the
cockpit. As soon as the motors were running Hinkley and Graves set
themselves against the left wing. With the right motor full on they
succeeded in turning the ship until it was headed down the slope,
pointing toward one corner.
“If you don’t turn ’em into the wind the controls are liable to get
flapping,” Hinkley explained to all and sundry. “With a smaller ship,
wind sometimes turns ’em over, getting under the wing, too.”
Larry was wondering whether Broughton was planning to try a take-off. It
looked like suicide to him, but Broughton was the doctor, Hinkley
shrugged his shoulders at his thoughts, and then looked goodnaturedly at
the lowering faces about him. He was enjoying himself.
Without another word Hayden walked toward the cabin. The others followed
slowly.
“I’ll be back in a moment,” announced the fat man. “If there’s anything
you need----”
“Nothing, thank you,” returned Graves.
“We are as welcome as rain at a picnic,” remarked Hinkley after the man
had got out of earshot.
“Just about,” agreed Graves as Broughton returned. “To tell you the
truth, I expected that we would get away with things a lot better than
we seem to be doing. Those three well dressed men are undoubtedly some
of the higher-ups in Hayden’s organization--the man that went after him
is Somers. He is the only one I know. Somers served ten years in jail
for killing a man when he was a radical leader. It was a strike affair.
His specialty used to be salted mines and that sort of stuff--he’s a
rough customer who can take care of himself. I’m surprized to see him
all dressed up out here--if he’s working the city end of Hayden’s scheme
he’s rather out of his element. We believe he’s the actual leader on the
robberies themselves. That little Jew, Meyer, is the only other man
known to me personally. He’s a New York gangster--good with a gun.”
“How do things look to you?” inquired Broughton.
“The whole bunch is too ---- suspicious,”
Graves returned unemotionally. “Part of this gang are simply down here
for a visit, I imagine, to consult with Hayden. He isn’t taking a chance
on getting within miles of a big city policeman. I imagine that most of
the men who do the actual robbing are here, too, hiding out until the
next one is pulled. Probably the prosperous-looking men are the birds
who help get rid of the securities Hayden gets hold of.”
There was silence for a moment. Graves paced up and down slowly, his
head bent in thought.
“I’m going up to the cabin on the excuse of getting some water to see
what I can see. We’ve got to work fast, I can see that. Hayden is
audacious and brilliant, and suspicion is enough for this gang to work
on.”
“The old boy seems to amount to something, all right,” was Hinkley’s
tribute.
“He is a wonderful man. If he did not have that perverted twist in him,
he might be almost anything. I would suggest that one of you fool around
with this supposedly missing motor, and the other one walk around and
find out as much as possible about the guard system. We’ve got to be
planning how we are going to get out of here. If you can do it without
suspicion, you might see what they have along that lane there.”
* * * * *
Graves started for the cabin as he finished speaking. Hinkley strolled
carelessly over toward the lane which led away from the cabin into the
woods. Broughton climbed up on the motor with a wrench in his hand and
commenced tinkering with the valves.
The cabin door was open, and Graves could hear a conversation in which
many low-pitched voices took part. He walked in calmly. All conversation
ceased as he entered.
“Could we borrow a pail of some kind and get some drinking water?” he
asked, taking in his surroundings with a single lightning-like look
around.
There were eight bunks, built double-decker, against the four walls of
the cabin. Each was occupied now by a cigaret-smoking man. Hayden stood
in a doorway which apparently led into a small lean-to at the rear.
Somers was sitting on a rude stool. There was one small table, littered
with candle grease and cigaret butts. There was only one window, close
to the ceiling. A sort of half-darkness made it difficult to make out
the features of the men lying on the bunks.
He waited fully a half minute before receiving an answer. Then the fat
man got to his feet.
“I’ll get you one,” he said.
He had darted a quick look at Hayden, Graves noticed, before saying
anything.
He saw nothing but suspicion in the faces of the men about him. He
surmised that few of them lived there, but were there for a meeting with
their chief. Perhaps that might account for their attitude of extreme
suspicion, which did not seem justified under the circumstances. Then
there was always the possibility that some one of them might know him.
“How long do you think it will be before you get the plane out,
Colonel?”
It was Hayden’s deep, rich voice.
“Several days, I imagine,” returned Graves, watching his man narrowly.
“I should think that unless your headquarters were notified where you
were----”
It was a half question.
“We will wire from Elm Hill tomorrow. If we do not, they will have forty
planes out looking for us,” Graves explained.
He caught several meaning looks passing between various of the men at
his last statement.
“I should think it would be a very difficult job to locate a plane that
was really wrecked in these hills. Of course in your case you’re in a
clearing and it would be easy.”
Hayden’s voice was smooth and his words almost pleasant, but there was
nothing in his eyes now to give the lie to his face. He was the
personification of power and ruthlessness.
Graves’ sixth sense, developed by years of contact with the world of
crime and intrigue, warned him now. His mind probed behind Hayden’s
apparently casual words, and what the government man thought he found
made him look at Hayden with new amazement. He thought back over the
things he knew of the man before him.
For years he had been a thorn in the side of enforcers of the law all
over Europe and America. A dozen times big coups--jewel robberies, bank
robberies, huge swindling schemes--had been laid at his door, but never
yet had he been caught dead to rights because of his genius for
organization and leadership. There was a South American revolution which
star chamber gossip of the secret service said that Hayden had
conceived, promoted, and finally cleared a hundred thousand dollars on.
When supposedly he had left the country, police and secret service alike
had drawn long breaths of relief.
There was bigness and sweep about Hayden, and Graves knew that what he
suspected of the man’s plans concerning himself and the two flyers was
by no means too audacious for Hayden to contemplate. He would order it
with no compunction, and it would be a mere trifle for those men lying
around the room to execute.
These thoughts raced through his head as he relighted his cigar.
“Traveling by plane is queer business,” he remarked casually as he threw
the match out the door. “We often have trouble with people, strange as
it may seem. Moonshiners through this state, Tennessee and Kentucky
always think we’re after them if we have a forced landing anywhere near
by. Miners and hill-billys and their sort always figure army men and an
airplane are there for some purpose. Consequently we always go on a trip
well prepared with food, and heavily armed.”
He watched the effect of his words on his listeners. He was
disappointed. His explanation of the artillery the Martin carried,
besides what he had said about the ship being from Langham Field,
apparently had no effect in lightening the heavy suspicion that he could
feel in the very air about him.
“Well, if you’ll be good enough to give me the pail and show me where
the water is I’ll go back to the food,” he said.
The fat man led him outside and around the corner to a small tent which
sheltered a stove. A plank table with benches was beside it.
A young Italian who appeared to be the cook gave them a pail.
“The spring is right down the path. You can’t miss it,” said the guide.
His small eyes did not meet Graves’ regard for more than a second.
The government man got the water and went back to the Martin. He found
Hinkley already there.
“Find out anything?” he asked as he set down the pail.
“There’s a tent and three men on the top of a steep cliff right above
the road. They all seem to be foreigners. And you ought to see the cliff
on the lower side of the road. Anybody that stepped off that would have
time enough to say his prayers and make a will before he hit bottom.
Those three men could hold that road against an army if they had a
machine-gun. I came near getting shot myself. They said they were
camping.”
“It sure looks like a musical comedy war,” remarked Broughton, sitting
cross-legged on the motor.
“There may not be so much comic opera stuff about it, at that,” stated
Graves, removing the cigar from his mouth. “It’s bad.”
He told them briefly of his experience, and then went on:
“The size of the matter is, gentlemen, that those men are up to big
things. They’re so big and Hayden is in such a predicament that in my
opinion he will take no chances. It was only the luck of having an
operative over here who happened to be very familiar with Hayden that
caused us to know he was here. In view of the questions he asked me
about the difficulty of finding a wrecked plane in these mountains, plus
what he is, I believe he plans to kill us, burn the plane, and then bury
the motors or something. I expect that if I am right it will happen
tonight.”
His words were as calm and precise as though he were discussing the
weather. He replaced the cigar in his mouth and puffed it slowly.
“Somehow or other I can’t believe they would go that far on suspicion,”
said Hinkley. “They----”
“Are playing for big stakes, lieutenant,” Graves cut in. “And you cannot
figure them as normal. Somers has killed men--he was in jail ten years.
Hayden would sanction anything necessary for the success of his project.
What are our three lives to them, compared to the prizes they are
playing for, or the results of their being run down?”
“Lots of people will have seen our ship passing over,” suggested
Broughton. “They may figure that the army will just say another wreck
and let it go, but an investigation might be embarrassing.”
“They could kill us in such a way that it would look like a wreck,” said
Graves. Burn our bodies with the plane, or something like that;”
Both airmen nodded.
“Well, what are you going to do about it?” Hinkley inquired.
“If you’ll pardon me, Mr. Graves, I have a scheme that might work,”
announced Broughton. “It’s no better than a fifty-fifty shot, but I
believe that you’re right, the more I think of it, and in that case I
believe our chances of ever getting Hayden and getting out of here are
about as good as the old snowball in ----. I’ve got a crazy idea we
could take off here.”
Hinkley was not greatly surprized, but Graves was.
“You really think so?” he inquired with the nearest approach to
eagerness that the flyers had ever seen him show.
Broughton nodded.
“On account of the slope, only half a load of gas and oil now, and the
fact that even if we stall completely getting over those trees that the
mountainside is so steep we can nose down and get up speed. What do you
think, Larry?”
“Just about fifty-fifty,” was Hinkley’s reply. “Of course I don’t know a
great deal about Martin bombers--I’m a pursuit man and Jim here is the
big-ship expert. It’ll be a hair-raiser, with everything to lose and
pretty nearly everything to gain. Inasmuch as these yeggs are so
suspicious, I don’t believe we’d have a Chinaman’s chance to get Hayden
and get out of here----”
“Except by strategy they won’t understand,” Broughton cut in. “You see,
Mr. Graves, I figure it this way. If you tell them we’re going, they’ll
lose some of their suspicion. Probably half the reason for killing us
would be to prevent our telling anybody about their funny rendezvous up
here, plus the plausible reason for our death if anybody gets nosing
around. The ship gives them that----”
“And any of them who are afraid of the police through their past
reputations could disappear while some unknown tells the army all about
the wreck,” Graves suggested.
“Exactly,” agreed Broughton. “They’ll lose their suspicion, and will
think that we see nothing unusual in this place. When the motors start
they’ll all be out for the take-off. By some hook or crook we ought to
be able to get Hayden near enough the ship and a little away from the
others so that we can knock him on the head, chuck him in the back
cockpit, and give the old ship the gun.”
“If they’re all too near, one of us can get in the back, fiddle with the
machine gun, and then suddenly announce that we’ll mow down the crowd
unless Hayden gives himself up,” said Hinkley amiably.
* * * * *
Graves was almost excited at the hopeful vista suggested by the flyers.
His pace was a little faster than usual as he covered a path twenty feet
long over and over again. A fresh, unlighted cigar was clamped in the
extreme corner of his well-chiseled mouth.
“Of course I am in your hands as far as flying is concerned,” he said as
though talking to himself. “I don’t know how many of them will be armed,
but the chances are that in the excitement the shooting will not be very
accurate.”
Every one was silent for a moment. Then Broughton made another
suggestion.
“They will be back of us, sir, and if we can get in the front cockpit
fast the bomb compartment, which is as high as our heads, will protect
us from shots while we are taking off. They’ll ricochet off the steel
runway, I believe, at the angle of fire they’ll shoot at. Besides,
they’ll hold their fire at first for fear of hitting Hayden.”
Graves threw his untasted cigar away.
“We’ll do it,” he said calmly. “There are men with field-glasses over on
that mountain there keeping watch. If we fail, all hope of getting
Hayden alive and without publicity will be gone, but no man up here will
get out. All the routes are blocked, if they only knew it. It will mean
a lot of men killed capturing this party, and our swoop on Hayden’s gang
all over the country will be incomplete, but we’ll have done our best.”
“Let’s get the motor started then, right away,” said Broughton. “It’s
getting dark already.”
The western sky was red as fire still, but the sun itself had dipped
behind the mountains and the valleys were filling with purple shadow.
The motors were started without trouble. The roar of them brought every
one out of the shack. Luck was with the flyers, for only three men came
close to the ship--Hayden, Somers, and little Meyer. All the rest of the
men stayed near the shack, fifty yards away from the Martin. The
machine-gun holdup appeared to be unnecessary. The three men stopped
about ten yards away.
Graves walked up to them.
“We have the ship fixed, and have decided to try a take-off,” he said.
The comfort this brought to the three agitators was obvious. Graves
looked around and beckoned to Hinkley, who strolled up casually.
Broughton was idling the motors, now, and preparing to climb out.
Graves went a few steps to meet the flyer.
“Get close to Meyer and disarm him when I give the signal. Tell
Broughton to do the same to Somers--knock him on the head if necessary.
I’ll get Hayden, and then the three of us can heave him in the back
cockpit and get in before that gang up there can get their guns. I don’t
believe any of them carry revolvers.”
Hinkley grinned delightedly.
“Fast work, partner,” he breathed.
The three were standing quietly, talking in low tones, when Hinkley and
Broughton came up.
“Well, good-by,” said Graves, extending his hand to Hayden. Broughton
and Hinkley watched him closely.
His fist shot up like a flash of light, carrying all his weight with it.
The big man fell like an ox. At the same time the two flyers leaped in,
revolvers in hand, and crashed the butts down on the heads of their
respective victims. It was such a complete surprize that the ruse was
funny in its effectiveness.
Somers and Meyer were disarmed in a trice. Before the astonished
henchmen of Hayden had recovered from their surprize and covered half
the distance between the cabin and the ship the three government men had
heaved the unconscious Hayden into the rear cockpit and were scrambling
forward over the bomb compartment.
Without waiting for belts to be adjusted Broughton jammed on both
throttles. Bullets sang close to them; the gang had held their fire at
first for fear of hitting Hayden, and now the bomb compartment shielded
the flyers completely. Their heads did not show above it.
By the time the marksmen had realized this and had veered to go around
the wing the ship was in motion. For a few seconds two men wrenched at
the rudders in a mad effort to disable the plane, but the sturdy
controls held. Then the Martin was moving so fast that the men had to
let go.
For twenty-five yards Broughton ruddered the ship straight down the
slope. It was extremely steep there, and the heavy ship picked up speed
amazingly. Then Jim swung it slightly to the left, to get the benefit of
the extra yards that would give him.
The trees rushed nearer with terrible swiftness. There came a quivering
bounce, and then, with a feeling of infinite relief, he felt the ship
leave the ground. He pulled the wheel back as far as it would go.
The Martin made it. There was not an inch of margin, for the elevators
and rudders swished through the trees and the nose of the ship dropped
in a stall. For two hundred feet Broughton had all he could do to keep
it from dragging in the trees on that nearly sheer mountain side. Then
it picked up speed, and with both Libertys still running wide open
turned eastward through the thickening shadow, streams of fire from the
exhausts trailing behind like banners of triumph.