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The Boy Scouts of the Air in Indian Land
Boy Scouts of the Air Books
BY GORDON STUART
Illustrated by Norman P. Hall
The Reilly & Britton Co.
Chicago
COPYRIGHT, 1912
By THE REILLY & BRITTON CO.
THE BOY SCOUTS OF THE AIR IN INDIAN LAND
[Illustration: They crept, wriggled and crawled toward the machine. The
air was stifling and they could hardly breathe, but, groping in the
smoke and darkness, Carl finally got his hands on the truck.]
CONTENTS
I A RIDE AND A RUNAWAY
II THE DESTROYER
III THE LEGEND OF THE THUNDER BIRD
IV AN AVIATOR APPEARS
V AT THE B. P. RANCH
VI WINNING AN AEROPLANE
VII IN THE MOUNTAINS
VIII THE STORM
IX A STRANGE MEETING
X THE PATROL BECOMES A FACT
XI A SURPRISE FOR MR. PHIPPS
XII THE THUNDER BIRD ATTACKS
XIII AT WORK ON THE AEROPLANE
XIV THE FIRE
XV REPAIRING THE PLANE
XVI THE FIRST FLIGHT
XVII IN SIGHT OF THE ENEMY
XVIII SUCCESS AT LAST
XIX JUMPING A PEAK
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
They crept, wriggled and crawled toward the machine. The air was
stifling and they could hardly breathe, but, groping in the smoke and
darkness, Carl finally got his hands on the truck.
"Now, scouts," said Mr. Hawke, amused at their excited exclamations,
"we'll put this together, and I'll show you the model of the 'Thunder
Bird Aeroplane.'"
Carl stopped short. In front of him stood a tall, stately, blanketed
Indian. His whole face was hideously painted in various colors, and his
countenance was set and expressionless.
The struggle promised to be a long and hard one if Carl were left to
fight it alone. But this the other boys did not propose to allow, and
they immediately began to cross on the rope ladder.
Boy Scouts of the Air In Indian Land
CHAPTER I
A RIDE AND A RUNAWAY
"There she comes," exclaimed a boy, one of a crowd awaiting the evening
train in the hot little box of a depot at Silver City, New Mexico. A
speck of yellow had suddenly appeared far down the light, worn rails to
the east. Fifty loungers moved forward. The evening train was coming at
last.
"If mother don't look out," added the speaker, who was a tall, slender
young chap with strikingly black hair and eyes, "she'll miss the train
an' the folks that are coming. Mother seems to like to be late--always."
"Don't get excited, Jerry," broke in a second boy, this one with big
shoulders, a square determined face with a winning smile, and, his chief
characteristic, a big mop of yellow hair. "I think Ike and your mother
are coming right now."
While the headlight was yet only a growing star on the far-away plain, a
military hack, drawn by two nervous horses in charge of a colored
soldier in uniform, dashed up to the now lively depot in a cloud of
dust.
Those awaiting the arrival of the train made a fair picture of the
people living in that part of the half-desert Southwest. There were
miners, soldiers, sheepmen, freighters, loafers not easily classified,
and the usual mixture of Mexicans and civilized Indians. The arrival of
the train meant little to any of these except that it brought the daily
mail, strangers in the shape of prospectors, or drummers who might spend
a few dollars, and nearly always some one going to the Fort.
All soldiers know Fort Bayard. It isn't a real fort any more, although a
few cannon sit idly about the big white stockade and new brick
buildings, but the tired and sick soldier in the Philippines, in
California or in New York, knows that here, when all else fails, he may
be sent to find rest and new health. Uncle Sam has selected the old post
as the best place in the United States to put new life into his ailing
soldiers.
That's why, the Indian and his troubles having disappeared, and
consequently the need for armed militia, that old Fort Bayard has been
dismantled, new buildings put up, and the old structures repaired and
whitewashed and put in charge of a medical staff.
Here, at the time of this story, Captain H. Wilmot Crawford was in
charge of the Post, he and his under officers and the medical staff
living apart with their families in their own homes. This made the Post
quite a settlement. The Fort was six miles from Silver City. Every foot
of the intervening military road climbed upward to the big plateau, high
and dry, and looking in all directions toward the still higher mountain
ranges. The Post was an ideal home for the officers detailed there.
The lady in the hack that had reached the station just as the train
arrived was Mrs. Wilmot Crawford, wife of the Post commandant. She was
also the mother of the first boy speaker, Gerald Crawford, commonly
known as Jerry.
The interest of Mrs. Crawford and the two boys in the approaching train
was due to the fact that on it Mrs. Windham of Cleveland and her son
Fred were passengers. Mrs. Windham was coming to visit Mrs. Crawford,
her old schoolgirl friend, and, as her son was with her, it meant a boy
to join the Post quartette of kids. That his coming was eagerly
anticipated by the boys at the station was indicated by the actions of
the latter.
"I s'pose Windham won't think this is much of a place," remarked a third
boy as Jerry Crawford sprang to attend on his mother. "After living in a
big city like Cleveland, I reckon he'll think this is rotten," went on
the boy. "I hope he ain't stuck up, Dunk. It wouldn't seem just right to
take a fall out of Jerry's guest."
"Say," answered the boy addressed as Dunk, grabbing the speaker by the
arm. Then Dunk stopped, thrust his hands deep in his pockets and said,
with emphasis, "If I were you, Fly, I wouldn't fret about our new friend
liking us or the place. He ain't visitin' to our houses. It's up to
Jerry to entertain him an' keep him right. But, as far as that goes, he
may take to it like that New York kid who's over to Brett's ranch.
Graystock just took one look at a cow pony and the mountains and gave it
out cold he didn't care whether he ever went back to New York. And New
York's a heap sight bigger than Cleveland."
"I ain't looking for trouble," protested the boy addressed as Fly. "But
I hope he's all right. The summer's pretty long down here, and they
ain't many of us. So, what there are of us ought to be right if we're
goin' to pull together."
Little did any of the boys think when they heard that a Fred Windham was
to arrive from Cleveland, what a whirl of events was to arrive with him!
Mrs. Windham's doctors had advised her to go to New Mexico. Jerry, Dunk
and Fly had driven over in a four-horse freight wagon from the Post.
Mrs. Crawford had come to Silver City earlier in the day to do some
shopping. As Mrs. Crawford dashed up to the station, the dusty but well
appointed hack, the spirited horses and Mrs. Crawford's half western,
snappy costume indicated that life at the Post was probably not without
pleasures of its own. In fact, an invitation from one of the Post
families to spend a few weeks at Fort Bayard in the summer was generally
considered a special favor.
With a growing rumble and spreading glare of light the swaying train at
last stopped before the station. Jerry darted from his mother and with
his two companions was at once lost in the crowd. Mrs. Crawford remained
in the hack awaiting her old friend. There was so much confusion on the
platform that, at first, the expected guests were not seen.
Jerry separated from his crowd, but, not knowing the Windhams by sight,
he had not much hope of recognizing them. However, seeing a rather
undersized boy before him, he raised his voice without hesitation.
"Say, your name Windham?"
"You bet!" The other's face broke into a smile. "You're Crawford? Glad
to meet you. Here's my mother, Crawford."
"Come right along," laughed Jerry, after shaking hands. "My mother's
right over here."
He led them out of the crowd, and a moment later the two ladies greeted
each other while Jerry introduced his friends to the northerner.
Fred Windham was small for his age, but this was offset by a striking
face. High forehead, twinkling gray eyes with flecks of brown in them, a
mouth and jaw like a steel trap, and quick, firm handclasp won him a
place at once among the other boys. Fly seemed satisfied.
Mrs. Windham met the boys; then the two ladies entered the hack.
Evidently Mrs. Crawford's guest expected her son to follow her.
"Oh, he'll drive with the boys," laughed Mrs. Crawford, "unless he's
afraid of the jolting."
"Sure I will!" grinned Fred. "If it's all right with you fellows?"
"What do you think we're here for?" responded Dunk, vigorously.
"Go ahead, Ike. We'll load up the trucks and be right behind."
The hack started off with lighted lamps, while the four boys got the
Windham trunks and piled into the waiting freight wagon on top of them,
Jerry taking the reins.
The boys in the freighter escorting Fred Windham up the mountain road to
Fort Bayard were members of the Post quartette. The fourth member of the
gang, however, although a constant comrade and companion of the three
who had gone to meet Windham, was an Indian--an Apache boy known as
Carlito. The other lads were Gerald Crawford, son of the Post
commandant; Duncan Rivers or "Dunk," son of Lieutenant Rivers of the
Post staff, and Art Giles, known as Fly for reasons that will soon be
apparent. There were other boys in the neighborhood, however. One of
them was Herb Phipps, the son of the owner of the big B. P. ranch five
miles east of Fort Bayard, and another was his cousin Howard Graystock,
already mentioned by Dunk. Art Giles was not the son of an officer; his
father was post mechanic, and the boy, brought up with little schooling,
had known no life but that of the West. He was straightforward,
impetuous and full of enthusiasm. His red hair was no untrue index of a
sunny and lively disposition. More than one boy's share of freckles was
distributed over his bright, frank face.
Jerry's four horses were headed toward the Post plateau with its
picturesque mountains and deserts to the north and west. The road was
rough. It was now pitch dark, for there was no moon, and a slight haze
somewhat obscured the brilliant stars. Jerry soon caught up with the
lights of the hack, and then his team jogged along a few yards behind.
"Say, Windy," began Dunk, giving Fred the most natural nickname that
occurred to him, "it's all in the family now, so just wise up that I'm
Dunk, Gerald's Jerry and Art's Fly."
"Much obliged," said Fred pleasantly. "I'm used to Windy, but why the
Fly?"
"Oh, those boneheads know I've been studyin' aeroplanes," answered Art.
"Say, I clean forgot to tell you guys that Tender Gray called up this
afternoon and we're all going over to-morrow."
"Aeroplanes?" repeated Windy, the newcomer impolitely ignoring the
message from Tender Gray. "How can you study aeroplanes way down here
almost out of all creation?"
"Easy," answered Fly. "I've never seen a real flying machine but I guess
every boy's got some angle. My father takes a big English magazine about
flying machines."
"And Red-head's gone crazy over them," exclaimed Dunk. "You ought to see
the fine little machine he made a couple of months ago. He made it just
from reading about them in books, and it was a dandy too. Of course it
wouldn't fly, but it looked just like an aeroplane."
"I'd rather see a real one than find a silver mine," announced young
Giles promptly. "But nothin' doin' in airships on this plateau."
"They're great," broke in Windham. "I've seen a lot of them. Who's
Tender Gray?" he concluded with boyish curiosity, recalling that Fly had
mentioned another lad.
"Oh," answered Dunk Rivers, Jerry being busy with the horses, "he's a
cousin of Herb Phipps. Mr. Phipps is the richest man in this part of the
country. I guess he's a millionaire. They live over here about five
miles east on the big home ranch. Mr. Phipps goes in for sheep you know.
But he's got a lot of sheep ranches, and mines too. They call the one
over east the B. P. ranch. That's the brand too. Of course it means
Brett Phipps, Mr. Phipps' name. But we all call it the Bread Pudding
ranch."
"What's the cousin's name?" went on Windham, pulling off his light straw
hat to keep it from blowing away as the big freight wagon rolled upward
on the mountain road.
"Oh," answered Dunk, "he's Tender Gray. His name's Howard Graystock. We
call him Tender Gray because he's what they call a Boy Scout up there in
New York."
"Boy Scout," almost shouted Windham. "Why, I'm one of them myself. I
want to know Graystock, you bet."
"That won't be hard to do," broke in Fly. "Him and Herb are over to the
Post about half the time. And anyway, we're to go over to the B. P.
to-morrow."
"I suppose you call him Tender Gray because he's a tenderfoot scout,"
remarked Windham.
"I reckon," chuckled Duncan. "That or because he's tender on the subject
of Boy Scouts. He's sure a bug on that question. But you'll like both
the B. P. kids. Herb goes to college every winter."
"You say you're a Boy Scout, too," called back Jerry over his shoulder.
"Yes, I'm a Boy Scout, first class, and I've got the badges to prove it
too."
"What are they?" inquired Dunk eagerly.
"One's for athletics--basketball's my game--one's for handicraft, and
the other--" Fred paused an instant with a smile--"the other's for
aviation."
There was a gasp of surprise, then Fly stuck a hand across the trunks.
"Shake old man!" he cried. They shook hands solemnly.
For some minutes, while Jerry's team lunged ahead and the freight wagon
swung like a vessel adrift, Windham and Fly forgot even Boy Scout
matters. But there was no time for prolonged talk, although each boy
related what he had studied on the subject of aviation. The exhilaration
of the ride was too much.
"Tell you what," Windham almost shouted, "I'm certainly glad to get out
here. Airships, Boy Scouts and a ranch too--Whoopee! Real cowpunchers
and roundups!"
He paused as a shout of laughter went up.
"Wait till we put Herb next!" gasped Jerry. "Wow! Ain't that a peach
though. Cowpunchers!"
"Well, I'll bite," exclaimed Fred. "What's the joke?"
"Roundups!" shouted Dunk. "Roundups and cowpunchers! Why, Brett Phipps
ain't got a puncher on the place!"
"Thought you said it was a ranch," protested Fred.
"It is," explained Jerry. "Sheep ranch though. All the punchers you'll
see will be Greaser sheep herders. 'Bout a million sheep on the Bread
Puddin'--Hello! See that?"
"What?" cried the others.
"Look out!" yelled Windham suddenly. Everybody dodged as a great gray
and white shape drove down through the air beside them and was gone on
the instant. A shriek went up from the hack in front, followed by a wild
shout from Ike.
"Runaway!" cried Dunk. "After 'em Jerry!"
The latter needed no urging. He had already caught a glimpse of Ike's
form falling headlong from the hack seat as the two terrified horses
plunged into headlong flight. With a shout of encouragement to his
mother and Mrs. Windham, Jerry doubled the reins and lashed his four
horses into a run, barely missing Ike's body as he passed it.
"What was it?" called Dunk, between jolts.
"I couldn't see," shouted Jerry.
The hack before them was careering madly over the sand and stones. The
glimmering lamps showed the sweating flanks of the two horses that were
running frantically. The freight team behind gained rapidly, however,
and slowly drew abreast of the runaways. Jerry was urging his horses on
with hat and reins when a dark shadow threw itself at the forward team.
Something seized the bridles and hung there, dragging down the horses'
heads, and Jerry barely managed to draw up his four as the hack stopped
abruptly.
Instantly the boys were helping Mrs. Crawford and Mrs. Windham to the
ground. Assured of their safety Jerry and Dunk ran to the heads of the
hack team.
"Carlito," cried Jerry, gripping the shoulder of the slim young fellow
who stood there. "Old man, I'm--I--darn it all, come on back!"
"It's Carlito, mother," he shouted, dragging the reluctant young figure
with him. "Carl stopped 'em!"
The rescuer reached for his sombrero, which had fallen from his head, as
Mrs. Crawford held out her hand.
"You are a brave boy, Carlito!" she said gravely, her face pale. "You've
saved us all, I guess. Mrs. Windham, this is Carlito, one of the finest
boys at the Post."
As their rescuer turned, his face came into the light of the lamps, and
Mrs. Windham started, for she saw he was an Indian. Quickly recovering,
she thanked him warmly.
"It wasn't much," said Carlito, smiling composedly. "The horses were
stopping themselves."
"Not on your life they weren't!" cried Dunk, hotly. "Jump in and go with
us to the fort, Carl."
"Can't. Going to town," replied Carl, putting his hands to his mouth and
emitting a strange sound. There was an answering whinny and he walked in
the direction from which it came.
"That's the way he finds his pony at night, or when he doesn't know just
where it is. He certainly can make it loud too, when he wants to,"
explained Jerry.
As Carlito started down the road, he met Ike loping along rather lamely.
"Anybody hurt," gasped the driver as soon as he was within hearing
distance.
"No. How about yourself," Jerry answered, surprised and at the same time
relieved to see the darky had not sustained any injury.
"Oh, I'm tough," grinned the driver, resuming his seat. "Say, what was
dat thing? I heard a rush and somethin' soft give me a swipe in de face
jest as the hosses broke, an' over I goes."
"Was it in the air?" asked Dunk. "Bird mebbe."
"Bird nothin'," contradicted Jerry. "It felt a heap bigger'n any bird I
ever heard of."
By this time the ladies had again taken their places in the hack and Ike
took up the reins.
"Better come along, Carlito," urged Fly, but the Indian boy shook his
head.
"See you at the B. P. ranch to-morrow," he said. "Get there about eleven
and you'll hear something worth while. So long." And the Apache sprang
on his pony and disappeared into the night.