THE ELEPHANT GUN
Shortly after daybreak that morning, Bill Bolton spiralled his small
two-seater down to a crosswind landing on a field back of Pawling, New
York. The monoplane bumped onward over the rough stubble for a few yards
and stopped.
Bill stripped off his headphone and turning in his seat, faced toward
Osceola and Ashton Sanborn who were wedged into the rear cockpit. The
field, though comparatively level, was high on the mountain side. From
where he sat he had a lovely view of a wide valley and a village
nestling amid the trees near the base of the mountain. But Bill ignored
the view. He seemed rather put out this morning.
“Well, here we are,” he announced grumpily. “I hope you’re pleased.
Orders are orders, but if you ask me, Mr. Sanborn, I think it’s the
bunk.”
The two aft got out of the cockpit and Sanborn walked forward to Bill
who was glaring at the instrument board.
“Sorry, old man,” the detective held out his hand. “Won’t you wish me
luck?”
Bill turned his head quickly and smiled at his friend. “Of course I
will, Mr. Sanborn,” his tones carried sincerity. “Here’s the best of
luck to you, and a full bag!”
They shook hands. “I know,” said Sanborn, “that both you and Osceola
feel badly about this. But you two fellows constitute our rear guard—and
believe me when I say that you’re undertaking a very grave
responsibility.”
Osceola came up and laid an affectionate hand on the older man’s
shoulder. “Good hunting, boss. Neither Bill nor I are ever quite
ourselves so early in the morning, and especially so after a heavy
night.”
“Oh, I know I’m a grouch today.” Bill laughed, though not very
convincingly. “But it’s a disappointment, after what we three have been
through on this business, not to be in at the finish. Don’t apologize
for me, Osceola. I know I’m acting like a spoiled kid—I’ll get over it
after a while.”
“If the Professor spots my men and Captain Simmonds’ police,” said
Sanborn, “his plane won’t land. Then it is up to you fellows to get
after him, and I give you _carte blanche_—you can do as you like about
it.”
“Force down the Fokker and capture the villain,” said Osceola. “If we
can.”
“That’s the idea,” replied Sanborn cheerfully.
“Only,” said Bill, “Professor Fanely _won’t_ spot the secret service men
and the police because they’ll be too well hidden. All that you and I
will get out of it, Osceola, is a rotten view of the battle, half a mile
away, from those trees over yonder. It’s a grand life, this secret
service stuff—if you like it!”
“I’ll tell you one thing, Bill,” promised the detective, “if this raid
is pulled off successfully, and we round up the cartwheel gang in their
lair, the people of the United States will have you to thank for saving
them from the most frightful menace that has ever threatened this land
of ours. And I’ll see that you get full credit.”
Bill leaned over the side of the cockpit. “Why, that’s the bunk, too,
Mr. Sanborn—and you know it. Osceola found the first winged cartwheel
and—”
“And ran it to a dead end,” supplied the chief calmly. “You were the
brains of this piece, Bill.”
“And you also put in plenty of grit and brawn,” amended the secret
service man.
“Heck, no. How about yourself, Mr. Sanborn? You’ve been running the
show.”
“But if you hadn’t saved my life last night, Bill, my boy, I wouldn’t be
running anything. And as the Chief says, without your brains, the winged
cartwheels mystery would have remained unsolved—and I would still be
watching poor Kolinski, over at Heartfield’s. No, Bill, you’ve played
the lead in this piece, there’s no disputing it.”
Bill grinned and shook his head. “Sorry I can’t agree with you.” He
leaned back in his seat and twiddled the stick. “Here comes Captain
Simmonds. I reckon it’s time you and I, Osceola, pushed this bus into
the shade of those trees. No need to give any more publicity than we
have to, to our whereabouts.”
The State Police Captain strode across the field. “Morning, everybody.
The men are posted, Mr. Sanborn. We’ve got the Mizzentop hotel
completely surrounded. When Fanely arrives we’ll rush the plane and the
house at the same time.”
“You won’t, unless you hurry—” Osceola’s sharp ears had detected a
distant hum in the air to the southeast, “here comes the Fokker now!”
Simmonds uttered an exclamation of fury.
“Tarbell is in charge. He’ll handle things all right.” Sanborn though
seriously disturbed, was outwardly calm. “Stupid of us not to expect
Fanely earlier. But you and I had better hop it, Captain.”
The big airplane appeared suddenly over the top of the mountain; then,
just as suddenly went into a steep right bank.
“Wait!” Bill snapped out the order. “They’ve seen us! Swing this bus
into the wind. If that Fokker gets away now, we’ll have it to do all
over again.”
The three on the ground grasped the situation instantly. They took hold
of the tailplane and slewed it round in a quarter circle, as Bill
switched on the ignition. Almost immediately, the inertia starter set
the propeller revolving, and Osceola taking a running leap half vaulted,
half climbed into the rear cockpit. They were moving slowly over the
rough ground now, the engine roaring.
With his feet on the rudder pedals and right hand on the stick, Bill
adjusted helmet and goggles as the engine warmed up. Then he cut down
the throttle speed and clapped on his phone set. A twist of the head
told him that Osceola was secure, and he roared the engine into twelve
hundred revolutions per minute. They were rolling in earnest now. Bill
lifted his ship off the ground with the engine beating a steady tattoo.
Then he opened her up wide and pulled back on the stick.
They climbed steadily, heading after the Fokker, which now was but a dot
to the southward, and bucking a twenty mile wind from the sea. The air
was slightly bumpy, and sharp knocks on the bottom of their fuselage
gave the impression of rolling over cobble-stones. Far above the roaring
plane, little clouds, like balls of fluff, swam in the light ether.
At fifteen hundred feet, the approximate altitude of the Fokker, Bill
leveled off. The distant shape which had been growing smaller, now
appeared to remain constant.
“We aren’t gaining any!” Bill heard Osceola’s voice through his ear
phones.
“Oh, yes, we are! But you can’t notice the gain at this distance. That
Fokker can’t do better than 118 m.p.h. high speed. I can squeeze 135 out
of this crate.”
“But they’re miles ahead, Bill. If old Fanely takes a notion to have his
pilot land him, all we’ll find is the deserted plane when we get there.”
“I know it, you old fusser—that’s why we’re going to climb again—Perhaps
you aren’t aware that it’s bad business to change temperature too
quickly?”
“But why go higher?” The young Seminole sounded annoyed. “We’ll lose
speed climbing—and it will take us longer to land at the finish.”
“Think so? Well, it’s the only way we can possibly catch up with them in
a hurry.”
“I can’t see that.” Osceola was frankly puzzled.
Bill pulled back the stick and sent them hurtling upward again. “See
those clouds up there, Redskin?”
“Better than you, probably, Paleface. What about ’em?”
“Which way are they moving, dumbbell?”
“Toward the southeast—great snakes, that’s the way we’re flying, isn’t
it! I thought we were bucking a stiff wind.”
“We are—but there’s another strata of air up yonder, and the current is
blowing those clouds in the direction we want to go. If Fanely’s pilot
had the sense of a louse he’d stick that wind on his tail as we will do,
instead of bucking half a gale down here.”
“Thank you,” said the Chief. “Compliments are flying like airplanes this
morning.”
“Don’t mention it, old top. I don’t think the Fokker is coming down yet
awhile, though.”
“That’s good news. How do you figure it?”
“She’s over the Sound now, and heading for the Atlantic via Long
Island.”
“That’s queer—they can’t be running off to Europe!”
“Not a chance—unless they’ve got extra fuel tanks aboard, and brimful at
that.”
“What do you think the old bird’s up to?”
“How should I know?—Something nasty, without doubt. Got a rifle handy?”
“You bet.”
“Then get it out. See that your safety-belt is on tight, too. I’m going
to worry them some when we catch up. Don’t fire unless I give the word,
though.”
Osceola grunted something that Bill didn’t catch. The little Ryan was
racing in level flight once more, roaring through the misty fluff balls
with a thirty mile wind from behind. Far below, Long Island Sound
appeared, a strip of dazzling silver between the Connecticut shore and
the long narrow island from which it takes its name. Beyond, the blue
Atlantic shimmered in the bright sunlight.
The Fokker, still flying at the same low altitude continued to head out
to sea. Bill knew that he was lessening the distance between the two
planes with every revolution of the Ryan’s propeller. He figured their
ground speed at not less than one hundred and sixty-five miles per hour.
In amazingly short time the little ship closed up on the big one.
“Get ready for a nose over!” Bill’s voice was steady and strong.
_Zing!!!_
The streamline steel tubing of the forward wing strut on the port side
buckled slightly.
“Fire at will,” barked Bill into his transmitter and pushed forward the
stick.
Over nosed the Ryan and with throttle wide open, she roared down on the
Fokker’s tail. From the rear and above came two deafening detonations,
and Bill saw the stabilizer and elevator to port and starboard of the
Fokker rudder disappear into thin air. For an instant the big bus reeled
drunkenly, then shot nose first for the sea, fifteen hundred feet below.
With wings creaking, Bill brought the Ryan up on an even keel, then
banked. On the surface of the ocean there rose a cloud of spray. The
Fokker had disappeared from sight.
“Gosh!” cried Bill. “That was a quick one!”
“I’ll say so. They must have drowned like rats in a bucket—or do you
think any of ’em will come up?”
“Not a chance. They died when she struck. Think of the speed they were
traveling! I could hardly see her nose under. Well, they started the
shooting. That’s why old Fanely led us out here.”
“Didn’t want a gallery from below watching eh?”
“That’s my guess. Gee whiz, you certainly got in a couple of pretty
ones! What have you got in there—a three-pounder?”
“Your father’s elephant gun—” Osceola told him. “And explosive bullets.
Another shot, and I’d have had the whole tailplane off.”
“Well, you’ve got no kick coming,” said Bill. “Let’s hike for home,
shall we? Nobody will ever see Professor Fanely and Mr. Lambert again.
You’ve saved the government a big expense this morning, Redskin!”
“Oh, there’ll be plenty of trials for the newspapers to grow rich on out
of this business, Bill.”
“Yes, I reckon Sanborn and the police corralled a bunch of winged
cartwheels at the factory while we were away on our joy-ride.”
“Sure—and _look! Look, Bill!_”
Their chase had led them miles to the southeast and now they were
approaching New York City on their return toward Connecticut. They were
speeding over the Narrows, heading up the harbor when Osceola uttered
his exclamation. High over the Battery, and downtown Manhattan, a
skywriter was at work. Together the lads watched the airplane spell out
its gigantic smoke letters above the city.
“BOLTON SAVES NATION
READ THE—”
“That’s enough—” cried Bill in a disgusted voice, and headed the Ryan
over Brooklyn. “Fast workers, aren’t they? Well, it looks as if
Mizzentop has fallen.”
“I guess it has. Remember what Ashton Sanborn said about you getting the
credit?”
“Yes, I do. He’s kept his promise all right—confound him!” said Bill.
THE END
Transcriber’s Notes
--Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public
domain in the country of publication.
--Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard (or amusing)
spellings and dialect unchanged.
--In the text versions, delimited italics text in _underscores_ (the
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