FRIEND OR ENEMY?
Although the commander had spoken confidently of being able to make
repairs to the damaged planes, examination soon showed that the task
was to be no simple one. Fabric in sufficient quantity was stowed
in the “hole,” and a fair supply of slender spruce frames, but when
the rudder had been dismounted and laid on the sandy ground and its
condition considered it became evident that their job was not to
repair it but to build a new one. Only the post of aluminum alloy was
undamaged. New braces must be fitted and new fabric stretched over the
whole. It was no task of an hour or two, but one that would require
the better part of a day. The horizontal plane on the starboard side
of the ship was more easily mended, and that without dismounting.
The tear in the envelope was of little consequence, and the hanging
fabric was carefully cut away and laid aside to be used, if needed, in
the other repairs; if not, to be replaced as best it might. By the
time the broken rudder had been unshipped and made ready for repair
the afternoon was drawing toward night and it was decided to attempt
no more until the next day. Instead, measures for the safe anchoring
of the dirigible were taken. A second cable was run from the forward
end and made fast to a bar of aluminum driven into the dry soil. The
breeze, which blew very nearly from the east, had increased slightly,
and the balloon, nose into it, kept the guys taut. Clouds were banked
high along the horizon to east and south, but overhead and in the other
quarters the evening was clear and, as night descended, cool. A pale
yellow radiance followed the sinking of the sun and continued for some
time. The air was remarkably clear and light, and much exertion soon
left one short of breath. Mr. Traine explained this by telling them
that they were at an altitude of something over 3,400 feet.
That appeared to establish the fact that, in some inexplicable way,
the dirigible had traveled back from the coast a matter of at least
three hundred miles, for no such elevation lay nearer the Gulf. Bending
over a map, the commander placed the points of his dividers down. “We
must be somewhere about here,” he said, “close to the boundary between
Coahuila and Chihuahua. Looks very much as if we’d got about where we
started for,” he added with a laugh.
“That’s queer,” said Lieutenant Gandell. “But we certainly couldn’t
have run off nearly seven hundred miles since midnight!”
“No, that’s what I don’t savvy,” replied Mr. Weeks. “The probable
explanation is that we were much nearer the coast than we figured when
we turned back.”
“Must have been,” the others agreed.
“How near is that town there?” asked Mr. Jordan, placing his finger on
the map. “About forty miles?”
“Nearer sixty, if we’re where I think we are. This is a high plateau.
The map calls it Llano de los Gigantes. I’d say we were on the border
of it, about a hundred and eighty miles south of the Rio Grande. How we
got here――――” He shrugged his shoulders.
“Main thing is, we’re here, what?” said Mr. Traine briskly. “Where’s
Roza supposed to be, Bob?”
“Don’t know. Some say near San José. One of our planes reported what
appeared to be an encampment further east, at a village called Perdero,
which doesn’t show here. It’s safe to say he’s not as far south as
this, anyhow. He’d starve to death here in a week. Besides, he couldn’t
get back and forth across the border as quickly as he does from
hereabouts. When we get fixed up again, though, we’ll have a look for
him.”
“Well, we seem to be not much more than five hundred miles from home,”
said Lieutenant Jordan cheerfully. “We can do that in eight hours if we
have to. We’ve got rations to last another day or so, anyway.”
“Always thinking of your tummy, Sam!” laughed Mr. Gandell.
“Sure! Some one’s got to. Say, speaking about chow, how’d it do to
build a fire down here and cook some bacon and one thing or another?
Sort of be a change, wouldn’t it?”
“Good idea!” applauded the commander. “Wonder if we can find anything
to burn?”
“There’ll be some dried stuff in those mesquite clumps, I guess. And
we’ve got that busted rudder frame, too. Some of you boys forage for
fuel while Dan and I get the grub down. How’d some beans go, gentlemen?”
“Don’t talk so much,” protested Mr. Gandell, “but get busy. I’m so
hungry now I could eat a horned toad!”
“Come on, Hugh,” said Jack. “Let’s you and I find the fuel before it
gets any darker. We aren’t much use as radio artists, so we’ll be
stokers. This air up here surely does make a fellow hungry!”
“Yes, and I’d hate like anything to have to live off the country around
here. I haven’t seen a live thing since we landed, except one lizard,
and he looked half-starved!”
“Don’t believe I’d care to eat a lizard, even if he was corn-fed,”
laughed Jack. “_Wow!_ Say, these bushes have spikes on ’em!”
“I’ve discovered that interesting fact already, my young friend. I’ve
also discovered that when you kneel down it’s just as well to make sure
that there are no cactuses present. Or do you say cacti?”
“I don’t say anything. I saw wood. I mean gather it. I don’t believe
we’ll find enough of this silly stuff to cook with. I can’t find
anything but twigs.”
“Get enough of them, son, and we’ll manage. Gee, but this is a forsaken
hole!” Hugh stood up and gazed across the flat world, now darkening
with shadows. Here and there patches of mesquite or cactus broke
the surface of the sand, but even those had a discouraged look and
seldom grew to a height of more than three feet. Westward, the sky was
faintly aglow and overhead the stars were twinkling, cold and white.
He shivered, partly because of the searching chill and partly from
a sense of the utter loneliness and desolation of this Plain of the
Giants, and followed Jack back to where the others were seated under
the great bulk of the dirigible.
Mate Wason, to whom culinary duties fell, soon had the blaze started.
The group drew closer about the little fire and watched almost in
silence while the bacon was arranged in the pans and the coffee-pot
was set to boil. The warmth was grateful, for this weather was far
different from the climate of Camp Stanton. When silence fell they
could hear only the whistling of the breeze in the mesquite and the
rustling of dry branches and the creaking of the balloon as it tugged
gently at the guys.
“Cheerful place, isn’t it?” asked Mr. Gandell. “I don’t suppose there’s
a living soul within fifty miles. How’s the bacon getting on, Mate?”
“Ready in a couple o’ minutes, sir. It’ll have to be, ’cause there
ain’t any more wood. Just as soon as I heat the beans I’ll yell.”
“And I’ll surely hear you,” said Mr. Gandell. “Man alive, but it’s
cold! Funny how you always think of Mexico as being hotter than Tophet.
This is sort of like an October night up in Maine or somewhere.”
“’Most as cold as it used to be in George’s Channel in July,” said Mr.
Weeks. “Ever do your trick in a destroyer cage off Queenstown on one
of those fine warm English nights, Pete?”
“No, but I know the sort of warm nights you mean. We had ’em in the
North Sea, Bob. Why the water didn’t freeze there in August gets me!”
“Dinner is served, gentlemen,” announced Mate Wason.
“Mug up, folks!” cried Lieutenant Gandell, scrambling to his feet. “Let
go my foot, Sam, or I’ll haul off and――――”
“Hold him, Sam, until I get mine,” begged Mr. Traine. “You know what he
is when he gets his feet in the trough, what?”
The fire became only a bed of glowing embers before the last scrap of
bacon was eaten and the final drop of coffee had disappeared, and after
that, huddling close for warmth, the crew of the _F 8_, comforted by
food, sleepy by reason of their long vigils, lay about the dying fire
and talked lazily, the smoke of mesquite and tobacco mingling. To Jack,
that evening was one long remembered. Sitting there under the frosty
stars, the desert wind on his face, he listened to the conversation
with eyes half closed and his head nodding back at times against Hugh’s
knees. The loneliness of the empty llano made the sound of voices and
the sense of companionship strangely pleasant.
Perhaps he actually slept for a few minutes. At least, he heard
nothing of turning in until his support was suddenly withdrawn and he
found Hugh laughing at him. The fire had died out now and the straight,
ceaseless wind was colder than ever. They climbed back to the boat,
Lieutenant Jordan pulling the ladder up after them to make sure, as he
explained, that no rattlesnakes should follow. It was Mr. Jordan who
volunteered to stand the first watch, and the others went below. There
were but four of the tiny, narrow bunks, and Jack and the mate spread
their blankets in the passage between. It was none too warm even down
there, for that dry wind had a most penetrating quality, and more than
once during the night Jack awoke with his very bones aching. Mate Wason
relieved Mr. Jordan at midnight and at four Hugh piled out. Jack was
more or less aware of the changes, for any one passing in or out by the
companion had to walk over him if not actually on him!
They were all up before six. It was quite light and the breeze from
the Gulf seemed more searching than ever. But breakfast, eaten in the
shelter of the engine cockpit, brightened the world a lot, and by the
time it was at an end the sun jumped up over the eastern edge of the
desert. Soon every one was busy. Hugh and Jack dismounted the auxiliary
antenna they had rigged beneath the hull, for an inspection of the
wires within the envelope had shown them to be all right. After that
Hugh practically pulled the wireless installation to pieces and in the
end found the trouble, but although he spent the whole morning trying
to make repairs he didn’t succeed. Many replacement parts had been
provided, but, as luck would have it, what he needed was missing. Nor
could the combined ingenuity of the two radio operators and Lieutenant
Jordan make good the deficiency.
Meanwhile, the others were busy at the rudder. It was slow work,
for many necessary tools and appliances were wanting. By noon the
temperature had risen until leather coats were laid aside, and the heat
of the fire which Mate Wason built to cook the midday meal with was
avoided.
“We ought to be ready to get off by three or half-past, I’d say,”
remarked Mr. Weeks. “How about patching that hole at the tail, Ben?
Think it’s necessary?”
“No, but the old girl would look more shipshape if we sort of mended
her up there, what? Don’t want Tito Roza to think we’re tramps!”
“All right,” laughed the commander, “we’ll see what we can do about it.
Guess there’s fabric enough. No luck with the wireless, Clode?”
“No, sir. I guess it’s done for.”
“Well, it won’t matter, I suppose. I’d like to have reported to
Headquarters, though. They’ll think we’ve come a cropper if they don’t
get word before long. Can’t be helped, though.”
“Wonder what that hill over there is,” said Mr. Gandell, his gaze on
the distant mesa that, to use his own phrase, stuck up from the plain
like a sore thumb. “Looks to me――I say! What’s that off to the left of
it? That’s no bird, is it?”
“No, it’s a plane,” exclaimed Mr. Weeks. “One of ours, do you think?”
“Might be,” said Mr. Gandell. “Pretty far south, though, and coming
straight out of the northwest. Not likely, I guess.”
“Mexican, then. I’m not sure I like that.” Mr. Weeks gazed at the
distant object for a moment before he continued. “How are your engines,
Sam?”
“All right.”
“That chap’s got his eye on us. Headed right this way. If he wants to
be nasty he can make it mighty unpleasant for us. Let’s get that rudder
on.”
“He’s swinging south,” announced Hugh. “Maybe he doesn’t like our
looks.”
But the airman was not running away, as was soon evident. Having worked
well to the south, the plane banked and came back toward the dirigible.
“About twelve hundred feet up,” said Mr. Weeks, “and――yes, he’s a
Mex. That’s a French machine. Don’t see his colors, though. Here he
comes. Sam, drop my binoculars down here, will you? Let’s have a look
at the chap.” When the glasses were adjusted the commander continued
his comments. “Two of ’em there. No insignia on the wings. That’s odd!
By Jove! Get under cover! He’s training his machine-gun! Under the
balloon, fellows!”
They scuttled, Mate Wason last, growling uncomplimentary remarks. The
plane was nearly overhead now and the _zoom_ of its engine reached
them. Looking up from the shelter of the dirigible, they could see
plainly the faces of the two men in the airship; see, too, the glint of
sunlight on the machine-gun. Then up went the tail and directly toward
them raced the plane in a long, sharp dive. Mr. Weeks whipped out his
automatic, the others following his example. Nearer and nearer swept
the yellow stranger, growing bigger every instant, its nose pointed
straight at the little group in the purple shadow of the balloon.
“The cheeky beggar!” growled Mr. Jordan, and raised his automatic.
“Wait!” commanded Mr. Weeks. “Don’t fire until they do! Maybe they’re
only bluffing!”
The whirring of the propeller made a sound like the beating of many
wings and it seemed that in another moment the airplane would bury
its nose in the ground. Jack, gazing upward spellbound, his automatic
ready, held his breath in mingled alarm and admiration. Then Mr. Week’s
voice rang out sharply:
“Let ’em have it!” he cried.