“Humph, now I feel as if I am alive!” Bob had just swallowed the last bite of a delicious fried-chicken sandwich, and he blinked contentedly about the room. They were all in the bunkhouse at the Gordon’s. Zargo, who had accompanied Mr. Austin and Don Haurea, had relieved young Caldwell of his patient, so the Flying Buddies and Carl Summers could give their undivided attention to the basket of food the rescuing party had brought with them. At that moment Kramer moved, opened his eyes and stared at the dark man bending over him.

“You are doing well, sir,” Zargo said quietly. There was something very reassuring in the manner of the Box-Z’s overseer, and although the man from the north had never set eyes on him before, the dozen questions that popped into his brain on returning to consciousness began to arrange themselves in an orderly array instead of a confused mass.

“Guess you are a doctor,” he said.

“I know a little,” Zargo admitted.

“I say, Kramer, was there an extra tank of gas in that bus?” Jim asked. “We have been trying to calculate where it would have to come down.”

“Gas? Oh, no, I left the extra ones at your ranch before we went to Crofton. Thought I shouldn’t need them,” he replied.

“Then that chap couldn’t get more than about fifty miles?”

“It would depend upon how he flew. He’ll get about sixty or sixty-five; if he conserves it,” answered Kramer.

“Great, then he would have to come down in Texas. Feel like eating something? There is a little left but believe me it has taken great self-restraint on our parts to save anything.”

“He may have a little, then more before we leave,” Zargo decided, so they arranged a roll of blankets to raise Kramer’s head, and he was ready to eat.

“I can feed him, Old Man,” Bob offered. “Don Haurea wants to go up the cliff to where the plane took off. When you come back we’ll go home. It’s been a nice large night and a good time was had by all.”

“That is an excellent suggestion,” Don Haurea smiled at the irrepressible young fellow. “We shall leave the officer with you,” he added and turned to Carl Summers. “You are both armed, I do not anticipate further attacks, but it is always well to—as the Boy Scouts say—to be prepared.”

“Yes, sir,” Carl agreed, but he wasn’t especially keen about being left behind, for although he had caught occasional glimpses of the owner of the Box-Z this was the first time he had come into close contact with the man who was something of a mystery to his neighbors, and more so to the natives of Crofton, so the deputy greatly regretted not being a member of the investigating party.

“You are a good soldier,” said the tall man, who was, on close acquaintance, proving so very unformidable.

“Thank you, sir.” Carl was immediately eager to take his part in upholding the law and guarding the wounded. The rest of the party got into great coats, wrapped mufflers about their necks, and pulled fur caps over their ears. The three men had strong flashlights, and presently they stepped out into the night anxious to explore the vicinity as quickly as possible. Their first journey was to the scene of the explosion, which interested Don Haurea very little, and finally they made their way to the trail where they began the steep climb to the ledge.

They had to exercise care, for the explosion had loosened huge chunks of rock and ice and as they proceeded Jim was amazed that the plane had not been damaged. At last they reached the spot, but as far as the boy could see there was nothing gained by the trip. However, Don Haurea made his way close to the steep cliff, which rose almost straight as a wall with several broken sections. Carefully the man investigated all of them and a moment after he disappeared into the last one, they heard him call sharply to his servant, who responded immediately, the Austins following close on his heels. To their utter astonishment they saw something huddled in a heap against a rock and as the lights turned fully upon it, they whistled.

“It—why Dad, it’s Jute—Pigeon Jute. I’d forgotten him.” Zargo was bending over the Indian, his capable fingers moving swiftly, then he said something to the Don, and an instant later picked the man up in his arms.

“He was shot,” Don Haurea explained briefly. “We will get him where it is warm and see if we can help him.”

“Shall I go ahead with a light?” Jim asked softly.

“It would be a good plan,” the Don answered, so the boy led the way down the treacherous trail. Zargo might have been carrying an infant for all the effort it took, and finally they were again in the bunkhouse. Bob was too amazed for even the mildest of exclamations, but he jumped in and arranged a bunk.

“We found him near where the plane was,” Mr. Austin explained. Then they waited silently while Zargo examined the Indian, and after what seemed hours, he looked up.

“In a moment he will return to consciousness,” he announced, and he was right. Pigeon Jute opened his dark eyes, looked from one to the other, then tried to raise himself. Don Haurea spoke to him in his own language and the Indian’s eyes lighted. After a minute, he spoke a few sentences, and when he was finished the Don nodded.

“He says that for some time he has been selling—or delivering long distance flying pigeons to Arthur Gordon. He was in the north at the time of the trouble at the Box-Z, so did not hear of it until a few days ago after he had delivered several carriers to a ranch outside of Crofton. When he learned of the difficulty he started to find young Gordon to collect his money. He trailed him to the ranch, but could not locate him until this morning. When you boys left the dugout Jute started up the trail. He was behind the cliffs when the place blew up and was coming back to see if you were hurt when he saw Gordon leap into the plane. He tried to prevent it, but was shot for his pains.”

“Jute can speak English!” Jim remarked.

“Yes, but not so well as his own tongue, which is less effort while he is so weak,” Don Haurea replied.

“Whistling Pigs,” exclaimed Bob, “reckon that’s why Gordon did not favor us with any more lead.”

“Undoubtedly it is,” Don Haurea agreed. “What was Gordon going to do, or doing with carrier pigeons?” Jim wanted to know. “Are they kept on that ranch?”

“Merely shipped from there. The man told Jute they had sold the place and were waiting for the last birds he brought down.”

“Shipped by rail?”

“Truck, and probably that truck will not appear in the neighborhood again. From the plane, Gordon no doubt dropped a warning, or several of them, and every trace will be obliterated at once.”

“Tough luck,” Jim muttered.

“How many of the wounded can be moved?” Mr. Austin asked practically.

“Both of them,” was the decision. “I shall take Jute to the Box-Z.”

“Kramer is booked for the K-A,” Jim grinned.

“Boy, you’ll have a vacation as is a vacation,” Bob promised. “You can do a Caesar; wire your firm that you came, you saw, and you conquered—”

“Were conquered,” Kramer corrected. “I’ve had a grand trimming—”

“Well, don’t broadcast it, why shouldn’t you have some glory!” They lost no time in getting the two wounded men into the limousines and although Mr. Austin urged Carl to come to the ranch, the deputy decided to wait for instructions from the sheriff, so at last they drove off, leaving the young fellow alone, but this time there was no anxiety regarding his safety. Seated beside his father, Jim’s eyes stared ahead and his mind was busy. He felt it was a beastly shame that the new plane should have been lost before they had had it twenty-four hours, and although they had made the trip for the mail and newspapers, the bag was now no-one-knew where and the family was deprived of its second investment. The boy was feeling too blue over the theft to discuss the matter so he resolutely tried to put it out of his mind. He thought of young Gordon, with his limited supply of gas, but he had absolutely no hope that the outlaw would be captured. In the first place, it had been hours from the time the machine took off from the cliff before the sheriff could send the alarm, and by that time Gordon would have made good his escape. There were dozens of ways by which he might replenish the fuel supply and go on to the Mexican border, or almost any place. To be sure, a description of the machine would be sent forth but that did not help matters much.

Finally the two cars reached the point in the road where the Austins turned into their own ranch house. As he sped by, Don Haurea waved to the occupants in the other car. Then Jim wondered how it was the Indian had been discovered. He recalled the man’s interest in the cliff, his investigating each crevice, and the finding of Jute. Then another query popped into his mind.

“I say, Dad, is Jute an American Indian?”

“Yes, full-blooded. What made you ask?”

“Just wondered how Don Haurea knew his language,” Jim answered.

“I have heard that as a boy, the Don was always interested in the various tribes and made a point of learning all he could about them. Here we are—and, oh what a shame—” He broke off quickly when he saw the house lighted from top to bottom and knew that Mrs. Austin had not gone to bed, although it was nearly morning. Before they drove to the door, it was thrown open. “The doctor came from Crofton and is waiting,” Mrs. Austin called, and a moment later the medical man came to help his patient into the house. Over the eastern rim of the mountains the first faint streaks of dawn were breaking before the buddies were ready for bed.

“Kind of rotten about the bus,” Bob said softly.

“All of that,” Jim replied. They turned in to catch up on some of their lost sleep and it was noon before either of them opened his eyes again. The pair joined the family for a “brunch,” which was the name Bob gave to a combination breakfast and lunch. As they lingered over the meal, the telephone rang and Jim went to answer.

“Yes, this is the K-A.” There was a slight pause, then, “yes, wait,” “Oh, Galloping Snails, that’s great, Sheriff! Will you hold the wire a moment please? I say, Dad they found the plane—”

“They did, that is splendid—”

“Did they get Gordon?” Bob demanded.

“No, not a trace of him. Dad, they have got the plane near an aviation field. It’s smashed up some, but not bad, just a few little things—”

“Can they fix it?” Mr. Austin asked.

“Yes, easily, so she’ll be all hunkie-dorie.”

“Ask them to do it, and if they have a pilot, have him fetch it home as soon as it is ready. We are certainly fortunate.”

“All right, Sheriff. Thanks a lot for calling us.” Jim hung up the receiver, and everyone was eager to hear the details.

“I suppose Gordon came down in the night and sneaked off,” Bob suggested.

“They haven’t any idea of what happened to him. One of the airmen saw the plane roaring along and he rode beside her just for companionship. When he looked for the pilot, Gordon, the cock-pit was empty. The fellow thought he was seeing things. Then in a couple of minutes our engine conked, stopped, and began to go down, but she spun around in grand style, going forward, and finally she dropped in a nice smooth section of the plain. The mail-man followed, but she was absolutely empty when he investigated. There was a bag of things on the floor, everything seemed just as it should be, but there wasn’t a trace of the fellow who started off in her,” Jim explained.

“Isn’t that rather amazing?” Mrs. Austin inquired.

“It surely is, Mom. I say, Buddie, was the parachute there?”

“Two; one on the front seat and one on the back.”

“The third one was gone. Gosh, Gordon must have hopped overboard when he saw he couldn’t get very far. Did his exit before anyone could start a search for him. She’s one grand little bus—intelligent animal, to make her own landing all by her lonesome. That ought to make Kramer feel pretty cocky—some talking point for his advertising department.”

“Better run up and tell him. He was feeling badly last night over the loss, and now that the machine will—”

“Be coming home to roost,” Bob grinned. “I’ll break the good news to him gently.” He raced upstairs to tell the salesman, who was delighted and no end set up over the achievement of the machine. While they were discussing the matter, the Box-Z limousine drove up, and Jim went to admit the caller. He discovered that it was Zargo.

“I had to be in this direction and Don Haurea asked me to stop and see if you wish to return with me.”

“Thanks a lot. I’ll be ready in a jiffy. How is Jute?”

“Doing very well, thank you. And Mr. Kramer—”

“Top of the world,” Jim replied.

“That is good news.” The boy hurried into the house.

“Oh, Bob, going to the Don’s this afternoon? Zargo is outside!”

“Guess not, Old Timer. I’ll linger around and keep Kramer from getting rusty, but you ooze along.” Ten minutes later, Jim was in the big car, which was a particularly powerful, smooth-running machine, and now it ate up the miles as it rushed over the road that wound along the edge of Cap Rock.

“Dad told me that when he was a boy this was the stage-coach road. The drivers used to go lickity-split—mostly split—and when the passengers got out most of them would be black and blue from the bumps,” Jim remarked.

“Those days are not so far distant,” Zargo replied. “Your father’s generation has seen many changes.”

“Yes, sir, from covered wagons to airplanes. Besides that there have been the cables, radio, submarines, automobiles and television. When you come to think of it they have had to do some mental jumping to grasp it all. The inventors and discoverers in these days are everlastingly lucky they were not born earlier, during the time when the mob pitch-forked everything that was different and called any kind of progress heresy. Great guns, I never can understand why those old ducks were so opposed to people using their own brains. What a lot of good men and women they cooked when half the world had to believe what a couple of fellows dictated. Zargo, do you believe there is a hell?”

“What is your definition of hell?” the man asked.

“That’s a hot one. A bad place where bad people go when they are dead. Where they have to atone for their sins,” Jim answered.

“And what would you classify as sin?”

“You sure are not going to commit yourself,” the boy chuckled. “Well, I don’t believe God punishes people for their ignorance, but if he does, there’s an army—an everlasting big one—of people who have been powerful enough. I mean held high positions, inflicted torture and suffering on their fellow men, who tried to show the world how everybody could know more—like Galileo, and a lot of fellows. I’d call destroying men like that a sin.”

“You would turn a great many—say standard saints, into sinners.”

“Sure, why not? If they were incapable of rightly classifying their fellows, they just naturally over-estimated their own importance.”

“I should say you have given the matter a good deal of thought.”

“Well, I have some,” the boy flushed. “You know, when you are flying, way up in the sky—through the heavens, no matter what they were doing, it does set a chap’s thinking machine to working. Gosh, I’ll be glad when we get our new plane fixed. When they fetch it home, Bob and I are going to take it to bed with us so nothing can happen to it—wow, here we are.” The car went purring along the drive under the snow laden willows whose long branches rustled and murmured as the breeze stirred them. It stopped before the door, which was promptly opened by the man servant, and a minute later, Don Haurea was welcoming his pupil, who lost no time in divesting himself of outer garments.

“Your step-brother, I take it, is engaged in entertaining Mr. Kramer.”

“Yes, sir. He’s still got some things he wants to read, and I guess he thought if he stayed at home, it would be a little easier on Mom, and Bob sort of likes to take care of sick things. It tickles him pink if he can doctor a chicken, especially if it gets well,” Jim laughed, then added earnestly, “Bob’s a great buddie.”

“He certainly is,” the man agreed promptly.

“I say, Don Haurea, did you know that Pigeon Jute was up there in those rocks? I’ve been wondering all night.”

“Suppose we go to the laboratory and see. It is nearing the hour when I have a few minutes with my son—”

“That’s so, I’d like to say hello to Yncicea, haven’t done it for a week. Does he celebrate Christmas, I mean the way we do?”

“With the rest of the world he enjoys a holiday,” the man nodded.

“I’m glad, because a year without a Christmas would be sort of—well lonesome.”

The two went leisurely into the long, cheery living room, to the panel in the wall which was now a familiar object to Jim, but he recalled that first day the Don had opened the way to the little elevator, which had been installed during the days of the present owner’s grandfather. Without waiting, the boy pressed the tiny knot, and as he did so, his mind leaped back to the summer day when the Gordons and Burnam had led a crazy mob to the ranch, and an airplane machine gunner viciously fired his deadly rounds into the house in an attempt to destroy its occupants. The whole scheme had failed because Jim had managed, despite wounds, to press his bleeding hands against a small button on one of the pillars on the veranda, releasing an invisible wall of electricity which caught the invaders. Today the door slid smoothly, the pair stepped inside and immediately began to descend to the beautifully built under-ground work and experimental laboratories. Presently they were in the long tiled hall, the boy went at once to his own closet where he changed to the close-fitting white suit and soft sandals.

“This sure is a comfortable outfit,” he grinned. The Don was ready too, so they hurried along to the turn, and finally they were admitted to the outer room, which was exactly as it was on the boy’s first visit, only now the attendant smiled his recognition, and they passed inside. Here was a large class of scientific men; as before, some of them glanced up from what they were doing, while others were too absorbed to note the late arrivals. Austin nodded or spoke a soft greeting as he passed on into the Don’s own department, and soon they seated themselves on a long bench before a sort of desk with a high frame at the back. Eagerly the young fellow looked up at the man, who nodded, and then Jim’s fingers moved expertly across the dial until at last he sat back and waited.

Over the screen in front of him passed a slight movement which might have been water, but Austin knew that it was a film composition rolling past and in a moment he made out blurred objects which gradually shaped themselves into a back-ground of blue sky, with a rushing stream in the foreground. Shrubs and trees stood out in stately order, then a winding path which led over moss-grown rocks to a wide terrace above. Then something moved and Jim could not contain himself a moment longer as the boy he had first seen in Vermont, stepped out from the garden.

“Yncicea,” he called.

“Jim, Old Scout,” came the laughing response. “In Texas you are to have a white Christmas.”

“We surely are,” Jim laughed. “Bob’s mother is crazy about it, says it’s exactly like when she was a girl in Vermont—you know—”

“When she lived on the farm, by the waters of Lake Champlain.”

“Right you are. Well, it’s great to see you, and your father wants to speak to you. So long, Old Man.”

“So long, Jim, Old Scout; here’s to the membrane on your proboscis.” “Aw, go on, that’s no way to say—skin on your nose,” Jim laughed.

“My son has not proved to be a very good student of slang,” the Don chuckled, then, for several minutes the two spoke in that strange language which Jim had not been able to attribute to any race. Finally the father and son were finished, then the man moved to the further end of the room. Again the two sat down before a dial board, but this time the screen was more like a moving picture.

“Will this be yesterday—last night, I mean?” the boy asked.

“Yes, and perhaps it will answer your question.”