Tim, raging at the injustice of the whole thing, leaped, forward, his fists clenched, but Dugan caught his arms and whispered in his ear.

“Easy, Tim, easy. You’ll only get a knife in your ribs.”

Tim could see the truth in Dugan’s words and allowed himself to be led back to the stinking little building which was dignified by the word “prison.”

“Isn’t there any way we can get word to the American authorities?” asked Tim.

“I’m afraid not,” replied the daredevil. “Once a fellow comes below the border he’s pretty much on his own and it’s up to us to get out of here before daylight tomorrow. It won’t be long before dark and then we’ll see what can be done.”

Tim, restless and angered by the events which had just taken place, paced about the room, testing the bars at the windows and kicking the dobe walls in an attempt to find some weakness. The idea of facing a firing squad in the morning did not strike him as especially alarming for he had confidence that in some way he and the daredevil would be able to make their escape.

The shadows of evening were already filling the plaza when Dugan went to a window and raised a shout for food. A guard ordered him to be silent, but he only increased his clamor until his cries attracted the attention of General Lopez, who was taking his evening stroll on the far side of the square.

“Provide them with food,” ordered the rebel leader, “and see to it that it is a good meal for it will be their last.”

The guard muttered under his breath but hastened away to carry out the command.

On one of his restless rounds of the room Tim’s foot struck something half imbedded in the floor. He managed to pull the object free and found himself the possessor of a piece of iron pipe about eighteen inches long.

“Look here, Dugan,” he exclaimed, “we ought to be able to dispose of Mr. Guard with this when he comes with our food.”

“Give it to me,” said the daredevil, “I want just one whack at that fellow’s head.”

“Not on your life,” replied Tim. “I found the pipe and I’m perfectly capable of using it. You’ll have your hands full if another guard happens along with this chap.”

The guard could be heard returning and Tim took his place behind the door. His heart beat a trifle faster and he took a fresh grip on the pipe. He heard Dugan move closer.

“There’s two of them,” whispered the daredevil. “Let them both get inside and then use that pipe.”

Tim heard one of the guards fumbling with the heavy lock, then the rattle of the chain, and finally the squeak of the rusty hinges as the door was swung open. The rays from a smoky kerosene lantern made a half-hearted attempt to pierce the gloom of their prison and the guard carrying the basket of food stepped into the room, followed by the man with the lantern. Before the rebels had a chance to get their eyes accustomed to the gloom, Tim leaped from his hiding place, his arm flashing in a quick blow that felled the man with the lantern before he could utter a cry of warning. Dugan caught the lantern as it dropped from the fingers of the unconscious soldier and Tim lunged ahead, bent on completing his task.

The man with the basket of food half turned. He saw Tim’s upraised arm but was powerless to evade the blow. His cry of alarm was cut short and he fell limp into Tim’s arms.

The whole thing had taken less than five seconds for Tim’s two blows had been fast and true.

“Did you crack their heads?” asked Dugan.

“No,” snapped Tim. “They’ll be all right in a few minutes. We’d better get out of here and head for our planes. When they come to or are missed, this hotbed of rebels will be at our heels.”

“Grab a blanket and sombrero from one of those chaps,” said Dugan. “It will help us in getting out of the village.”

Tim threw a blanket over his shoulders and pulled one of the high-crowned hats far down over his head.

“All right, let’s go. You lead the way, Dugan.”

The daredevil stepped outside their jail, pulled the door shut, rattled the chain, and then blew out the lantern. “Just in case anyone might be looking,” he whispered to Tim. They melted into the shadows, and hurried in the direction of the field which served as headquarters for the rebel air force.

They reached the field unmolested and discarded their blankets.

“Better take my plane,” suggested Tim. “It’s fast and there’s plenty of gas to get us to the border.”

“Suits me,” said Dugan. “The quicker we get away from here the better.”

Tim climbed into the cockpit and his legs struck something boxlike as he swung into his seat. His groping hands discovered his camera. He could hardly repress a shout for there was his machine loaded with the pictures for which Lopez had so arrogantly posed in the afternoon. Tim recalled having seen an officer drop the camera back into the cockpit of his plane. What rare luck.

Tim placed the heavy camera under his seat and turned on the light over his instrument board for a moment to be sure that the delicate gauges and his compass had not been tampered. Satisfied that everything was all right, he called down to Dugan to hop aboard.

“In just a minute, Tim,” said the daredevil. “There are a couple of planes here and Lopez may send them out after us when he realizes we have escaped. It will be moonlight in a few minutes and we don’t want to take any chances of being overhauled and shot down.”

He slipped away and a moment later Tim heard the sound of a heavy blow and splintering of wood. In a few seconds the sound was repeated and then Dugan appeared beside the Good News chuckling.

“Neither one of those ships will get into the air tonight,” he said. “I found a heavy club and smashed their props.”

Dugan took his place in the forward cockpit and Tim bent down to turn on the starter. Just then he heard shouts and cries of alarm from the village and lanterns flashed in the trees that separated the field from Lopez’ headquarters.

“Get going, Tim, get going,” urged Dugan. “They’ve found out we’ve escaped. You’ve got about a thousand feet of level ground ahead. Then you’ll have to lift her fast to clear the trees.”

Tim turned on the starter and it whirred for what seemed an age while the dancing lanterns came closer.

Finally the motor caught and burst into a roar that reverberated down the valley. There was no time to warm up the engine and Tim opened his throttle and sped his plane down the field.

Faster and faster they raced while behind them the night was punctuated with crimson stabs of rifle fire as the rebels sent volley after volley crashing in pursuit of the fleeing plane.

The motor never faltered and when the trees loomed ahead Tim had plenty of flying speed. He zoomed the Good News into the night sky and turned on his instrument light to get his bearings.

Ahead of him he could discern the gap in the mountains and he roared through it with his exhaust belching streams of flame.

Tim set his course for Nogales, north by west and settled down for three hours of flying. By the time the moon came up, Sonora was far to their rear and a few minutes after midnight they circled the field at Nogales. The sound of their motor awakened the field crew and landing lights were turned on.

When Tim brought the Good News to a stop, he was greeted by Captain Talbot, who had thrown a coat on over his pajamas.

“Back already?” he asked.

“Back and with half a dozen pictures posed by General Lopez,” grinned Tim.

“What!” exclaimed the army man, who could hardly believe what he had heard.

Tim pulled his camera out from under his seat. “Right here,” he said, “are half a dozen of first class pictures of Lopez. Let’s go into the office,” he added, “and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Captain Talbot was almost incredulous when he heard Tim’s story but the plates were absolute proof of his tale.

“I’ll leave one of the plates with you for your border patrol bulletin,” said Tim, “but the pictures must be kept in strict confidence. Now if I can get some gas I think we’ll hop along toward Atkinson. If we can get away from here at 1 o’clock we ought to make it there by noon tomorrow, figuring on one more stop for gas and oil.”

“Dugan going to help you pilot on the way home?” asked Captain Talbot.

“Yes,” said Tim, “and I’ll need the help.”

“I expect you will. I ought to hold Dugan here under arrest but I guess he’s learned his lesson and won’t go hunting for any more revolutions. How about it Dugan?”

“You’re right, Captain Talbot. No more revolutions for mine.”

“If I can borrow a control stick for the front cockpit it will help out a lot,” suggested Tim.

“I’ll have the boys put one in right away,” said the genial captain.

While the Good News was being made ready for its thousand mile flight to Atkinson, Tim wired Carson that he was on his way with the plates and would arrive about noon the next day.

At one a. m. Tim and Dugan sped away from the Nogales field and their friends of the border patrol. Dawn found them well on their way toward Atkinson and at 11:30 o’clock Tim sighted his home field.

When they taxied up to the apron, Tim found Carson waiting for him.

The managing editor had ordered a dark room for developing the plates rigged up at the field and in less than half an hour, a complete set of pictures were on their way to the News office while another set, still damp, were placed on board a special plane to be rushed to Chicago where they were to be placed on the telephoto wires.

Tim had written the story of his adventure while Dugan had handled the controls and the story of his flight and the pictures of the rebel leader were on the front page of the first afternoon edition of the News—a clean beat over every other paper in the country.

Tim was preparing to leave the field when Dugan stopped him,

“Can you spare a minute?” he asked, his voice low and tense. He was evidently laboring under great emotion and Tim followed him toward the field and away from the others.

“I haven’t forgotten how you saved me the day the good will tour ended here,” hastened Dugan, “nor what you’ve done this time and I’ll repay you now. You’ve heard of the Sky Hawk?”

Tim nodded, waiting for the other to go on.

“I know who he is,” went on Dugan, his voice hoarse from emotion. “He’s a former German ace, a great flyer, but obsessed with the idea that by plundering the air lines he can amass a great fortune and eventually attack America from the air. It’s a crazy dream—a wild one—but he’s sure raising hob while he’s free.”

“He certainly is,” agreed Tim. “Who is it, Dugan?” He waited for the answer, hardly breathing.

The daredevil’s lips started to move. Then he glanced toward the sky where a heavy humming drifted down.

A plane shot through the clouds, whipped around and headed in for the field. The crescendo of its motor was deafening; conversation was impossible. Dugan screamed something at Tim but the words were inaudible. Then he started running along the field in front of the hangers.

Tim yelled after him but his words were lost in the storm of noise as the plane skimmed over the field. The flying reporter screamed until he thought his lungs would burst. Dugan, running toward the Good News, was sprinting directly into the path of the incoming plane.

There was a blur of light, a form hurtling through the air.

The pilot of the plane leaped from his ship. There was something familiar in his build—in his stride. When they reached Dugan he was beyond help and Tim stared across the body of the daredevil into the hard eyes of Kurt Blandin.