Several days after his flight with supplies to the marooned village in the Cedar river valley, Tim had an unexpected visitor. He looked up from his work to find a tall, curly haired man of not more than thirty years of age, standing beside his desk.

“Are you Tim Murphy?” inquired the visitor. Tim nodded.

“I’m Kurt Blandin, boss of the Ace flying circus,” replied the other. “I hear one of the boys treated you rather roughly the other day and I thought I’d drop in and invite you to come and see us again.”

Tim thought he noted a peculiar, strained quality in the other’s voice, and he deliberated his answer.

“I’ll run out some day,” he said. “As a matter of fact I couldn’t see any reason why I was given the cold shoulder when I was out the first time.”

Blandin laughed and Tim found himself rather liking the other when he smiled.

“An air circus,” he said, “is bound to have some accidents and sometimes we aren’t treated any too well in the newspapers. So you can’t blame the mechanic for giving you the bum’s rush. But everything will be O. K. the next time you call.” With that Blandin breezed out of the office and Tim stared after him blankly.

Somewhere he had seen the face before. There were familiar lines about the mouth, a peculiar little scar over the right eye and a hardness of the voice that once heard would never be forgotten.

He forced his thoughts back to his work but Blandin and the Ace air circus troubled him. What were they doing at Atkinson? Could there be any connection between them and the Sky Hawk?

The ghostly quiet that comes just before the dawn was broken by the insistent voice of the telephone.

Tim rubbed the sleep from his eyes and grabbed savagely at the offending instrument.

“Hello, hello!” he barked.

An anxious voice came over the wire.

“What!” Tim’s exclamation was charged with alarm. “You’re sure? All right, I’ll be at the field just as soon as I can throw on some clothes and get in touch with Ralph.”

Tim jammed the receiver on its hook, only to seize it a moment later and something in his voice made the operator buzz furiously as she rang Ralph’s number. After an interval that seemed an age to Tim, a sleepy voice answered the operator’s imperative rings.

“That you, Ralph?” cried Tim. When the voice admitted that it belonged to Ralph, Tim poured his story over the wire.

“Wake up, Ralph. Wake up,” he urged. “There’s plenty of trouble over in the Big Smokies. Bad Storm last night and the west-bound Transcontinental plane has crashed somewhere. They haven’t had a trace of it since the ship went over Newton. The Transcontinental people have sent out a general alarm and Hunter just phoned and asked us to help in the search. Meet me at the field just as soon as you can get there.”

Ralph, thoroughly awakened by Tim’s words, promised to be at the field in fifteen minutes.

The flying reporter completed dressing and hastened from his room in quest of a taxicab. A driver, on the lookout for early morning fares, was loafing down the street and Tim hailed the cab.

“To the municipal field,” he ordered when the cab pulled up at the curb, “and step on the gas. This is important.”

The gears crashed together and the cab lurched away into the night, gathering speed as it headed down the almost deserted avenues.

When they reached the field they found it ablaze with light. Pilots and mechanics were hurrying in and out of the hangars and planes were being warmed up and pushed on the line.

“Charge it to the News,” said Tim as he disembarked. Hunter, who came running out of the office, greeted him.

“Glad to see you, Tim,” he said. “We’re getting things lined up to start as soon as it gets light. I’ve put a crew to servicing your plane and she’ll be ready in a few minutes. Where’s Ralph? Isn’t he going?”

Hunter’s question was answered by another snorting taxi, and Ralph, only half awake, tumbled from the car.

“What’s all the excitement and the big rush to get away so quick?” demanded Tim. “The air mail has cracked up before and has always come out on top.”

“Plenty of reason for the rush this time,” said Hunter. “The plane last night was carrying something like $500,000 in securities from New York for a Los Angeles bank.”

Tim whistled. “No wonder they’re getting everything out that can flap its wings. We’ll be with the rest of them, Carl, and glad of the chance to go. It will make a dandy story.”

Tim did not voice his real thoughts for there was no need to unduly alarm the field manager, but the minute the $500,000 had been mentioned, the thought of the Sky Hawk flashed through his mind. It was about time for that daring bandit of the skyways to swoop down in some bold manoeuvre. The storm might have been responsible for the failure of the mail to reach its destination and, again, it might not.

“Called you right away,” added the field manager, “for I knew you’d want the story. But on top of that, I wanted you to make the trip. I figure you’re one of the best pilots around here to go out on a mission like this.”

Tim grinned and gave Hunter a good-natured shove. The driver of Ralph’s taxi was turning his cab around and preparing to start back for the city when Tim’s cry stopped him.

“Wait a few minutes,” he ordered, “and I’ll have you take a story to the News office.” The driver agreed and shut off the motor of his cab.

“Check up on the plane, Ralph,” said Tim, “and see that we have plenty of equipment for an emergency landing in the mountains—light, stout cable, an axe, some food and water and a first aid kit. While you’re doing that I’ll go into Hunter’s room and write a story to send to the office.”

In less than fifteen minutes Tim had hammered out a column story that fairly glittered with the sharpness of its sentences and the clearness of his simple, powerful English.

The air mail was lost somewhere in the Great Smokies, and the flying reporter, in the Lark, would soon be away on the search. Tim smiled to himself as he thought how Carson could play up the story. Now if they could only find the missing plane, it would be one of the best stories of the year.

Tim hurried out of the office and handed his story to the waiting taxi driver. That done, he turned toward the line where five planes were being warmed up for the search.

The flying reporter walked over to the airmen who were grouped around the field manager. He greeted Sparks, Bronson, White and Wilkins, all mail and express pilots—fine fellows every one of them; lean bronzed and alive to the zest of flying. But now there were more serious lines to their faces and it was a determined group of young men who heard Hunter outline the plans for the search. Ralph hastened up and joined them just as the field chief gave his final instructions.

“Buddy Perkins, who was on the mail, went over Newton on time,” said Hunter, “and he must have run into the storm about half an hour later. That would put him almost up to the divide but with the wind against him all the way, he probably didn’t make Billy Goat. I’ve marked out a map with the section each one of you is to cover. When you run short of fuel about noon, drop down to Newton, refuel, eat and exchange notes. I hope you won’t have to go on out again, hope you’ll locate Perkins by noon. It’s light enough to takeoff now, fellows, so get going and good luck.”

Tim and Ralph took their places in the Good News, which was the third ship on the line. It was just light enough to distinguish the fence which marked the far end of the field.

Sparks and Bronson roared away, flame shooting from the exhausts of their motors. Then Tim shoved his throttle ahead and sent the Lark skimming into the air. Behind him came White and Wilkins. Away into the west they sped, traveling on the wings of the dawn, intent on their quest for the missing Perkins.

Within the hour they had roared over Newton, nestled in the foothills of the Great Smokies, and had started clawing for altitude. The Lark handled beautifully in the cool air of the early September morning and answered to Tim’s every movement.

The flying reporter could see Sparks and Bronson swing away to his left while White and Wilkins turned to the right to cover the territory which Hunter had mapped out for each plane. Tim was more fortunate than the other flyers for he had Ralph’s keen eyes to help him comb the uneven ground below. Ahead of them loomed the Billy Goat, the highest peak of the range. Tim’s sector was on the east slope of the lofty mountain. Up and down, back and forth, Tim swung the Lark as he shuttled along the path usually followed by the air mail and express planes. The Billy Goat glistened in the morning sun but smiled grimly—almost defiantly Tim imagined, as it thwarted his every effort to find any trace of the missing plane.

By mid-forenoon Tim’s gas supply was getting low and he signalled to Ralph that he was going to turn back to Newton and replenish his fuel. They were near the top of Billy Goat and both Tim and Ralph felt certain that if Perkins had crashed on that side of the mountain they would have sighted him.

Tim cut his motor and let the Lark soar gracefully downward from the summit of the range. For a moment he forgot the urgent mission which had brought them out and reveled in the sheer joy of flying. Like a great bird his plane wheeled and swooped in the sky.

Half way to Newton Tim was joined by Sparks and White. They landed at the emergency field at the foothill town and a few minutes later were joined by Bronson and Wilkins. There was no need to ask about their success. Their faces told the story of the failure of their efforts.

While the other pilots were refueling their planes, Tim hurried into the village where he secured a basket of sandwiches. He made several inquiries in the village and related the result of these when he returned to the field.

The airmen sprawled beneath their planes and hastily munched the sandwiches Tim had provided.

“You say he went through here on time?” asked White, who had been a close friend of the missing Perkins.

“That’s what they say in Newton,” replied Tim. “The storm was threatening when Perk went over and he was flying pretty low and fast. About half an hour after he passed, the storm swept down from Billy Goat and from what folks here say, it was a bad one.”

“Half an hour,” grunted Ralph between bites of a sandwich. “That means he was pretty well up toward the divide. Maybe he got across on the other side.”

“It’s just too bad if he did,” remarked Bronson. “You know what the other side of the Billy Goat is like. Not a nickel’s worth of room for a forced landing. If Perk got on the other side he’s crashed sure.”

“Might not be that bad,” said Tim. “Anyway, I’m going to try the other side of Billy Goat this afternoon.”

“Look out you don’t disappear along with Perk,” warned White.

“Not much chance of that with Ralph along,” grinned Tim. “I’ll see you fellows here later.”

The foothills awoke to the roar of five high-powered airplane motors and one after another the flyers took off to resume their hunt.

Tim gunned the Lark and headed straight for the crest of the Great Smokies. The divide was a little to the right of Billy Goat. Tim boosted his plane over the snow-capped tops of the range and coasted down the other side. The slope on the west side was more broken—deep canyons with good-sized streams plunging along in their depths. But from the plane the rivers looked like ribbons of silver. It was a scene of majestic beauty but it gave Tim the shivers when he thought of being trapped on the inhospitable slope in a storm or, worse, at the mercy of the Sky Hawk.

For fifty miles Tim and Ralph followed the path of the mail and express ships, searching every valley, but their efforts were fruitless.

Tim frowned bitterly and turned the Lark eastward in a tight bank. Ralph looked back apprehensively but Tim only shook his head and pointed southeast. How blind he had been. If Perkins had made the crest of the divide and gotten over before the storm caught him, he would probably have been driven southwest along the side of the mountains. The Great Smokies ran northeast and southwest and the storm of the night before had swept down almost directly from the north.

When Tim again reached the western slope of the Billy Goat, he headed south and west. He scribbled a note to Ralph, explaining his reason for the sudden about face, and his companion nodded approval.

For an hour they searched the side of the range south of Billy Goat, and Tim, with an eye on the gas gauge, was about to give up the quest, when Ralph shouted and pointed downward.

A flash of white on a rocky ledge caught Tim’s eye and he circled lower. His breath caught sharply. Ralph’s sharp eyes had found the wreck of the air express. On a ledge of rock cropping out from the side of the mountain they could see the twisted remains of the plane!