Tim stalled down over the wreck of the air mail. There was no sign of life; no sign of Perk. His heart caught in his throat. Perk had been a mighty good flyer and a good fellow. Tim bad known him only casually but he had been well liked by all the other pilots in the air service. There was a chance that the airman, unharmed in the crackup, might have started to make his way out of the wilderness of broken rock and tangled forest on foot.

Tim made a careful survey of the shelf that jutted out from the mountain side. It was not more than 100 feet wide and perhaps 400 feet long—a dangerous place on which to attempt a landing.

The flying reporter shut off his motor.

“What do you say?” he shouted at Ralph, and pointed to the ledge.

“Go on,” came the reply. “You’ll make it all right.”

Tim tore off his goggles and Ralph did likewise. No use endangering their eyes if they crashed.

The flying reporter put the Lark into a sideslip. Just before they slid into the side of the mountain he leveled off and set the plane down almost on the edge of the rocky shelf. The ship bounded forward and he shoved the brakes on hard. They were still going fast, too fast. In a few more seconds they would pile up on the rocks ahead. Tim jammed his left wheel brake on hard and released the right one. The plane staggered, dug its left wing into the ground and almost did a ground loop. But the maneuver killed the speed and Ralph and Tim leaped from their plane and ran toward the wreck of the air mail.

From the looks of things, Perkins, blinded by the storm and driven far off his course, had rammed straight into the side of the mountain. The nose of the big biplane, with the motor, had been bashed back into the express cockpit and the landing gear had folded up.

Tim fairly leaped up the side of the fuselage and into the pilot’s cockpit, but Perkins was nowhere in sight. On the padded leather seat Tim found a folded sheet of paper. With eager fingers he grasped it and read its message at a glance.

“Hello, Tim,” he read. “The first time we met you won; this time fate brought the mail into my hands and right now I’m richer by some $500,000, which will keep me out of mischief for some time. I just happened to be crossing the Great Smokies this morning and saw the mail, which had cracked up in the storm last night. Don’t you wish you had a helicopter on your plane to lift you off this ledge? But I don’t think the pilot is badly hurt. See you later, and remember, the score is even.”

There was no need for Tim to read the name signed to the note. The Sky Hawk, profiting by the vagaries of the storm, had struck again!

Ralph, who had gone around to the far side of the plane, cried out. When Tim reached his chum he found him under one wing, bending over the unconscious form of the mail pilot.

There was a jagged cut on one side of Perkins’ head where he must have come in contact with some part of the plane in the crackup. His face was a grayish-white and Tim instantly realized that he was in need of expert medical attention.

“How badly do you think he’s hurt?” asked Ralph.

“I don’t know,” replied Tim. “He’s got a nasty crack on the head and it may be serious and it may not. Get me the first aid kit in our ship and I’ll dress this wound on his head.”

In less than five minutes Tim had dressed the cut and with Ralph’s assistance, had carried Perkins into the sunlight where his clothes, still damp from the rain of the night before, would have a chance to dry. He was breathing slowly but regularly and they forced a little water between his lips. While they were working over Perk, Tim showed the Sky Hawk’s note to Ralph, and their lips were drawn in hard, straight lines as they realized the power of the unknown bandit of the skyways.

Both Tim and Ralph knew that their real task, that of making a successful takeoff from the narrow ledge, was their biggest problem and they turned to it with determination. With Perkins taken care of temporarily, they made sure that the remaining registered mail was O. K. and then transferred it to their own plane. After that they started their survey of the shelf on which they had landed. On one side was the mountain, on the other a drop of nearly 1,000 feet. The surface of the shelf was fairly even but it was only about 400 feet long, far too short for a takeoff, especially with three in the Lark as there would be on the return trip.

“Looks like we’re going to be marooned here along with Perk,” said Ralph dubiously.

“It isn’t quite as bad as all that,” replied Tim. “If you’re willing to take a long chance, I think we can make it.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve seen those pictures of how the navy uses a catapult to launch its fighting planes from the decks of battleships?” Ralph nodded.

“We’ll use the same principle. Shoot ourselves into the air.”

“But we haven’t any catapult and the nearest battleship is a thousand miles away,” said Ralph, still unconvinced.

“All right,” said Tim. “I’ll show you how it can be done. Give me a hand now.”

Under Tim’s directions, they managed to trundle the Lark to the end of the ledge where the air mail had crashed. There they turned it around and pointed its nose toward the far end of the shelf.

“What now?” demanded Ralph.

“Open up that bundle of light cable we brought and get out the axe,” said Tim.

When that had been completed he took the cable and tied one end securely around a huge boulder directly back of the tail assembly of the Lark. The other end he passed along the fuselage and lashed around the nose of the ship.

“Simple, isn’t it?” asked Tim when he had made sure that the ends of the cable had been properly secured.

“Simple, yes,” agreed Ralph. “But what does it spell?”

“C-a-t-a-p-u-l-t,” said Tim. “C-a-t-a-p-u-l-t.”

“I heard you the first time, but that doesn’t look like a catapult to me.”

“Well, it is,” insisted Tim. “And if you’ll stop asking questions and help me boost Perkins into your cockpit, we’ll get out of here. It’s getting late now and will be dark by the time we get to Atkinson.”

Together they managed to get the inert form of Perkins into the forward cockpit and made him as comfortable as possible. Tim primed the starter and the motor caught on the first turn over.

Ralph was looking skeptically at Tim’s make-shift catapult.

“When I give her full throttle you slash the rope with the axe,” explained Tim. “I’ll admit that isn’t much of a catapult but it will give us a lot of added momentum when you use the axe.” Ralph, only half convinced, hopped into his cockpit and leaned over the side, axe in hand.

Tim tested the sturdy motor thoroughly. If it failed him when he started on his mad takeoff, they would plunge 1,000 feet down the side of the mountain to be impaled on the tall pines far below.

Satisfied that the motor would do its share, Tim settled himself for the test. He glanced ahead. The edge of the shelf looked dangerously near but there was no other course to take. He must get Perkins where he could have the best of medical attention.

Tim opened his throttle. Faster and faster he threw the raw gas into the motor until the plane quivered like a thing alive. The engine was thrumming wildly and Tim threw up his left hand, the signal for Ralph to cut the cable.

With a well-aimed blow, Ralph’s axe bit through the rope and the Lark leaped forward like an arrow and flashed toward the edge of the precipice.

The plane bounced from side to side on the uneven ground and Tim held his breath as they swooped nearer the end of their short runway. But the plane was gaining speed rapidly. How rapidly, he didn’t dare look.

At the last moment Tim pulled back hard on the stick but it was as though some giant had tied a string to the Lark and was playing with them. The plane staggered into the air, settled back, bounced hard, and then shot skyward. They were off at last but hovering dizzily in the air. The motor labored at its task and Tim sensed a losing battle. The added weight of Perkins in the front cockpit might be just enough to turn the scales against them. In another second they would be in a spin, hurtling down to death on the gaunt pines.

In a flash Tim took his only chance and threw the Lark into a power dive. That would give him the momentum necessary to handle his craft. Down the side of the mountain roared the plane, the wild beating of its motor echoing and re-echoing among the cliffs and valleys. They were almost on the tree tops when Tim pulled the nose of his ship up and leveled off with his plane under control.

Tim set his course for the crest of the range and was just sliding around the Billy Goat when the sun went down in the west, a great, red ball of fire. The evening shadows were thickening, for night comes quickly in the mountains.

The Lark made splendid time and they were less than fifty miles from Atkinson when Tim sighted the gray bank of fog rolling out of the east. Although fogs were not uncommon at that time of year he had not counted on that hazard.

With his gas getting low there was only one thing to do—hammer through and trust to his compass to bring him over his home field.

The cold, gray banks swallowed the little plane and Tim was flying in a world alone. The mist was so thick that Ralph, only a half dozen feet ahead of him, was only a blurred outline.

On all sides the fog mocked the flying reporter but he was determined to get through. A glance at the gas gauge was none too reassuring. His fuel was running low but if his calculations were correct, there would be enough to finish his task.

Tim turned on the light on his instrument board for it was quite dark by that time. He penciled a note to Ralph, asking him how Perkins was standing the trip. Then Tim took a wrench and tapped on the fuselage to attract Ralph’s attention.

Ralph leaned back and Tim handed him the message. Two or three minutes later they repeated the operation, this time transferring a note from Ralph to Tim. The flying reporter read his chum’s hasty scrawl.

“Perk’s all right so far but mighty white and quiet. Do you know where you are?”

Tim had to admit that he wasn’t exactly sure of their location but he kept on hoping for the best.

When Tim figured that he must be almost over Atkinson, he dropped as low as he dared, a careful eye on the altimeter, while he hunted for a rift in the fog that would allow him to land.

A light spot glowed ahead—perhaps the reflection of the lights of the city. For a moment the fog parted and Tim got a fleeting glimpse of Atkinson. But before he could locate the airport, the city was blotted from view.

Ralph, who had been on the lookout, had seen the lights and now was looking at Tim expectantly.

Tim fumed and raged against the luck of the elements and while he circled over the city his precious supply of fuel trickled away. The motor sputtered and he turned on the emergency tank enough for twenty minutes more of flying. Then they’d have to come down and probably crack-up in the process. It wasn’t a nice picture that flashed into his mind. Probably he would be safe enough for his cockpit was well back in the fuselage, but it would be tough on Ralph and the unconscious Perkins. Desperately, Tim searched his mind for some way out; some way to minimize the danger.

He gripped the controls harder as a plan took form. Tim put the Lark into a steep climb and soon reached the 3,000 foot level, plenty high enough for his purpose. Then he signalled for Ralph to crawl back into his cockpit.

Ralph scrambled back over the fuselage and his face, illuminated by the light on the instrument board, showed his amazement at the plan Tim unfolded.

“You can’t do that, Tim,” he protested. “It’s too risky. I won’t stand for it. We’ll stick by the ship and take our chances.”

“Not on your life,” replied Tim. “We can’t risk Perk’s life in a crackup and my plan is the only way out. You take the stick and tend to business. See you later.”

With that Tim scrambled into the forward cockpit where he busied himself, making sure that Perkins’ head was well bandaged. Then he unsnapped the safety belt, pulled Perkins into an almost vertical position, and lashed the body of the unconscious airman securely to his own.

Tim was glad that Perkins was slight in stature. With a heavier man his plan would have failed. Somehow he managed to work himself up on the edge of the cockpit with Perkins held to him by the safety belt.

Tim looked back at Ralph and waved his hand reassuringly. Then, aided by a mighty shove by his feet, he hurled himself into the fog, pulling Perkins with him. As he fell, Tim thought he heard a shout from Ralph.

Down, down, down they tumbled before Tim could find the ring and jerk his parachute. It was an eternity before he heard the pilot chute crack open to be followed a moment later by a dull sort of an explosion as the big chute unfolded and filled with air. A violent jerk stopped their mad descent and Tim hugged Perkins closer to him.

Maybe he had been foolhardy to desert the ship and trust to the silken umbrella to get them down, but it had seemed the only way to protect Perkins from what was sure to be a crash if they stayed by the plane. Tim figured that they would get nothing more than a hard bump when they landed and he could swing Perkins around and shield him. Ralph was fully capable of taking care of himself and the fortune in securities they had salvaged from the wreck of the air express.

Far away Tim heard the sound of an airplane motor. Probably his own ship. He hoped that the Lark wouldn’t be wrecked when Ralph was forced down.

The sound of the motor came nearer. It was the Lark for Tim knew its song by heart. Suddenly his face blanched. Somewhere to his right the plane was roaring down on them through the fog. With Ralph’s visibility at zero, it might run into them and chew them to pieces.

Tim strained to one side as he listened to the higher note of the motor. He grasped the shrouds of the parachute, ready to spill the air from the chute in an attempt to escape the plane if it was necessary. The added burden of carrying Perkins was a cruel strain on his body.

The roar of the motor filled the heavens as the Lark flashed out of the fog. Tim cried out in agony and horror for they were directly in the path of the ship. He closed his eyes and pulled the shrouds with every ounce of strength left in his weary body. They dropped earthward quickly as the air spilled from the chute.

But Tim’s tired mind had not acted quickly enough. Although they escaped the deadly whirl of the propeller, the tail of the plane took a husky bite at the chute. A great chunk of the strong silk wedged itself into the tail assembly and Tim’s body was almost jerked apart as he was pulled upward and after the plane. It couldn’t last long; it was more than his body could stand. He screamed under the agony of the awful strain and his eyes stared upward into Ralph’s terror-stricken face, as he fought to protect the unconscious Perkins while they were pulled through the sky like the tail of a great rocket.