BY MOONLIGHT
“Well, Bob Somers, you’re a crackerjack, sure enough!” Cranny Beaumont
uttered these words with a heartiness that indicated a decided
conviction on the subject.
The “Ogden II” had crossed the mountains and landed in safety on a
gently rising swell some distance beyond.
Cranny slapped the aviator on the shoulder with a force corresponding
to the enthusiasm exhibited by his speech, whereupon Bob winced and
hastily drew away.
“Thanks, Cranny,” he said, “but I’d understand without having the
sentiments pounded in.”
“Bob, I couldn’t help it. The way you handled that biplane was simply
great. I’d call it a corkin’ fine experience but for----”
The big lad paused, while an anxious expression replaced his habitual
grin.
“I wonder what has happened to them,” said Bob, musingly. “The ‘Border
City’ has certainly been blown against the mountain.”
“Sure as we’re standin’ here,” agreed Cranny. “By Jupiter, wasn’t it
mean luck that the wind had to change?”
The two stared about them for a moment in silence. Foot-hills and
mountains rose at their back, while in front a vast expanse of prairie
stretched off to the limits of view. Here and there, masses of mesquite
and scrubby trees dotted its rolling surface.
“What’s to be done, Somers?” asked Cranny, at length.
“Have a bite to eat, and wait for the wind to quiet down,” answered
Bob, with a glance at the sky.
“Goin’ up again, eh?”
“If there’s a possible chance. But if you don’t want to risk it----”
“See here, Bob”--the lad spoke in a highly injured tone--“did you ever
know me to back out----”
“Never did, Cran,” laughed Bob.
“And you never will, either. I’ll go where anybody else will, and maybe
a bit further. No Willie Sloan ’bout me, Bob.”
“Poor little chap,” sighed Bob.
“I’m afraid he’s had such a scare that it’ll take a year for him to get
over it. I’ll be mighty glad when to-morrow morning comes.”
“By that time we ought to know more than we do now, Cranny.”
Bob had taken the precaution to pack in a small bag a supply of bacon,
crackers and cheese, so the two hurried toward a patch of timber in
search of fuel.
After fifteen minutes of brisk chopping, Bob kindled a fire on the edge
of the woods, while Cranny filled the coffee-pot from the canteens and
got the cooking utensils ready.
The gloom slowly deepened; mountains and plain began to grow dim and
mysterious. The “Ogden II,” some distance away, revealed itself by
ghostly patches of grayish white and formless shadows; and, finally,
night closed around them.
The two found it difficult to keep their restless feelings in
check, often pacing to and fro, while the flames sent their shadows
fantastically over the ground.
Hour after hour dragged out its tedious course; but, to the joy and
relief of both, the wind began to lessen and the gaps in the clouds to
constantly increase in size. Shafts of silvery light fell across the
plain; the snow on Eagles’ Peak shone with a spectral luster, while
mountain crags and timbered slopes appeared in places where before were
only gloomy masses of dark.
“Isn’t this great luck, Cranny!” cried Bob.
“Corking! What jolly sport it would be but for----”
“That’s so,” said Bob.
Half an hour later, the impatient boys decided that it was safe to make
a start.
The moon was shining brilliantly as they stamped out the fire. Then
Bob, followed by Cranny, walked briskly toward the “Ogden II.”
The hum of the engine and whirr of the propeller blades soon rose on
the air. Under the skilful guidance of Bob Somers, the biplane began to
soar toward the silvery-edged clouds which still drifted in the grayish
expanse of blue.
Higher, still higher, with the moon sending a faint, queer-shaped
shadow over the prairie, rose the “Ogden II.” A vast, seemingly unreal
world opened out before them, as they swiftly winged their way toward
the mountains. Unheard exclamations of astonishment and delight came
continually from Cranny’s lips.
Densely wooded foot-hills were soon directly beneath them. Now, having
risen far above the crests of the nearer mountains, they were able
to look upon a scene of unparalleled grandeur. Innumerable crags and
peaks, enveloped in the soft sheen of the moon, stretched far off
toward the horizon, glittering in light, or steely gray in shadow.
The boys gazed into the dizzy depths below with a feeling of awe.
Here, they saw a cascade, tumbling from ledge to ledge; there, an
inaccessible canyon, through whose gloomy depths dashed a foaming
torrent. In the mysterious light, nature appeared but a ghostly echo of
herself.
The towering pinnacle of old Eagles’ Peak loomed up nearer; the snowy
surface began to reveal its bald, rugged forms, its precipitous slopes
and glittering rocks.
But even the wonderful panorama and the thrills of flying at a
tremendous speed could not relieve the intense feeling of anxiety which
the aviator and his companion experienced. Their eyes continually roved
over the landscape for any signs of the “Border City.”
“We’re likely to learn something mighty soon,” murmured Bob. “Whew, but
it’s getting cold.”
An icy feeling was in the air; the wind rushing steadily past carried
with it an unpleasant sting.
Ten minutes later, as the “Ogden II” began to skirt around old Eagles’
Peak, the boys’ hearts fairly leaped with excitement and hope.
The bright sparkle of a fire on a jutting ledge had sprung into view;
then disappeared, as objects passed between; then gleamed once more.
The boys saw something else, too. An exultant yell came from Cranny’s
lips. There was no mistaking that huge, cigar-shaped form which seemed
to be resting across the tops of a dense mass of pines. The rounded
surface of the “Border City” glimmered with light, or lost its
outlines in the surrounding shadows.
“It looks like some huge slumbering monster,” thought Bob Somers, as,
with a steady hand, he directed their course still nearer the spur, and
toward the ruddy, dancing flames.
“Rah, rah!” He joined with Cranny Beaumont in a shout.
The “Ogden II” shot far above the air-ship, and they were looking down
upon a scene, on the edge of the forest, which made their nerves tingle
with joy. Around the huge fire, three figures were seen, each wildly
waving his hands toward them.
“Safe--safe! Sure as I live!”
Bob Somers and his passenger exchanged glances of the greatest
satisfaction, and craned their necks to keep in view the little group.
As Bob raised his head again, he had a vague impression as of seeing
a tiny star-like point of light out of the corner of his eye. It was,
apparently, far distant, at the bottom of a rolling valley.
Upon looking a second time, it had vanished completely. Bob winked his
eye hard.
“Yet I’m almost sure of it,” he murmured. “Ah ha--there it is! Now
what does that mean?”
The star-like point had come plainly into view between a gash in a
deeply shadowed slope. Cranny, too, had seen it. He put his mouth close
to the aviator’s ear.
“Look, Somers!” he yelled, with all his force.
Bob nodded.
“We’ll investigate!” he roared, in reply.
Happy in the thought that their midnight mission had been so
successful, he changed the course of the “Ogden II,” heading toward
the tiny beacon which flared and fluttered, and constantly brightened,
against the greenish-gray background.
With a long, thrilling downward swoop, the biplane shot ahead, while
the jagged mountain crests which hemmed them in rose higher and higher.
Presently they were skimming across a patch of timber at a sufficiently
low altitude to see a number of tethered bronchos wildly prancing about
and several dusky figures evidently staring toward them.
Bob Somers shut off all power for an instant, allowing the machine to
volplane. The earth seemed to be racing toward them with terrible
rapidity.
Above the rush and hum of the wind striking against the planes he heard
a medley of ringing shouts.
Both boys knew those voices, and, highly delighted, both answered with
telling effect before the roar of the motor once more drowned all other
sounds.
Bob Somers eagerly scanned the valley, determining to make a landing
if possible. After circling about in all directions, he at length
discovered a comparatively level stretch overgrown with waving
bunch-grass.
“Just the place; it ought not to be difficult,” he reflected.
Cranny Beaumont understood his significant look.
“Sure thing, Bob!” he yelled in his ear.
The “Ogden II” began to volplane again. It was the most difficult
undertaking of Bob Somers’ short career as an aviator. But with all his
wits about him, he steered the machine toward the most level stretch he
could see.
“We’re goin’ to make a corkin’ landing,” muttered Cranny.
The last stretch was before them; the bluish shadow trailing over
the ground and the flying machine were rushing swiftly toward one
another. As Bob once again manipulated the levers, shadow and substance
joined--the biplane had landed with a startling series of jolts and
bumps. But the two were safe.