Tim kept the contents of the Sky Hawk’s message to himself. There was no need to alarm Ralph for he felt that it was a personal matter, but it disturbed him more than he cared to acknowledge. On the verge of what should have been his greatest success, the attainment of the goal to which he had been striving, the aviation editorship of the News, had come the mysterious message from the Sky Hawk, and Tim promised himself that he would keep himself fully prepared and alive to every emergency.

Their return to Atkinson brought a round of banquets and series of speeches at civic clubs. By early fall he was back in the pleasant routine, but this time with a desk of his own and the sign, “Aviation Editor,” on a small card.

For days he watched the news, listened to the gossip at the airport but there was no sign of the Sky Hawk—no sign since the day he had looted the wreck of the mail months before in the fastnesses of the Great Smokies. Yet Tim felt that the Sky Hawk was about to strike again and he knew that the next time it would be a battle to the end.

Then the smouldering fires of revolt burst into flame in Mexico. General Enrique Lopez, an officer in the federal army, had broken with the government and had taken the field against the federals. His army, recruited from the ranks of disgruntled federal soldiers, Yaqui Indians and peasants, enjoyed startling success in the first days of the revolution. Then Lopez played his hidden card and bombed Mexico City from the air.

The daring of his feat fanned American interest in the revolt and the front pages of the papers blazed with headlines which told of the progress of the revolt.

Young airmen, attracted by the high salaries offered by both the federal and rebel armies, flocked toward the border, only to be met by the stern, hard flying men of the U.S. army’s border patrol. There they were warned to turn back or take their chances at being shot down in their attempt to fly into Mexico. The majority of them returned but a few of the more daring ran the gauntlet of fire from the border patrol and made their way into Mexico.

A few pictures of the fighting between the troops came straggling up from the border but they were far from satisfactory and so far as could be ascertained, there were no actual photographs of the rebel chieftain. Within a short time American news picture services were offering fabulous prices for pictures of General Lopez but the wily rebel leader evaded every effort of the photographers. The luckless individuals who penetrated through his lines were imprisoned and their plates and cameras smashed.

Tim, who had been watching the course of events below the border, was not greatly surprised when, one morning late in August, Carson called him to his desk.

“Can you be ready to start for Mexico in half an hour?” asked the managing editor.

Tim had halfway expected to be sent to the border but to be asked to get into the interior of the strife-torn country was another thing. But his answer was quick in coming.

“In less than that, if it’s necessary,” he said.

“I’m not ordering you to go, Tim,” went on the managing editor. “It’s up to you, but it’s a great chance for the News to scoop the world if you can get inside Lopez’ lines, gain his confidence, and get back here with exclusive pictures of the rebel camp. It will be dangerous and your life will be in your own hands.”

“I’ll be ready to start in half an hour,” was Tim’s even-toned reply. Inwardly he was seething with excitement for it was his biggest assignment.

“I was fairly sure you would go,” smiled Carson, “but I don’t want you to take an unnecessary risk. I’ve had your equipment ordered, a high speed camera, and plenty of plates for the long distance shots. In addition, we have a small pocket camera that may come in handy if they seize your big machine. Here’s plenty of money for expenses on the first part of the trip and we’ll authorize the bank at Nogales, Arizona, to honor your checks for any amounts that you may need.”

Tim had turned away from the managing editor’s desk to tell Dan Watkins of his big assignment when Carson called him back.

“I think you ought to know,” he said, “that if you get those pictures we can sell the national rights on them to a news picture service. That will mean several thousand dollars and I’ll see that you get a fair share if you succeed.”

Dan, at the copy desk, was enthusiastic, but he cautioned Tim to be careful.

“We’ll miss you, Tim, and will be looking for your return,” he added as they said goodbye.

Tim hurried to his room, gathered the few essentials he would need for the trip, and drove out to the field. There he inspected the cameras and made sure that everything was in readiness for the long flight. It would be a good 1,000 miles to Nogales, on the border, and another 200 miles down into the mountains of Sonora before Tim could hope to come in contact with the rebel forces.

Confident that he had all the equipment necessary for his hazardous undertaking, Tim swung into the cockpit of the Good News. The motor was purring impatiently, as though the plane sensed its mission and was anxious to be clear of the ties that kept it earth-bound.

There were hasty last-minute farewells and then Tim sent his plane dusting over the field and into the air. He was away on his biggest assignment—that of securing pictures of the leader of the Mexican revolt.

The trip to Nogales was uneventful and Tim took two days to cover the 1,000 miles, landing at the border city shortly before noon on the second day. He circled over the airport while one of the ships of the U. S. army border patrol took off and climbed to have a look at him.

When the pilot of the army craft saw the sign on Tim’s plane, he waved a friendly greeting and sped away into the east on his lonely patrol.

Tim soared down out of the cloudless sky and brought the Good News to a stop on the brown, sunbaked field at the edge of the city. He went through the usual formality of registering his plane and his credentials were accepted without question.

Before he left the field to run into the city for lunch, an incoming plane attracted his attention. It was one of the border patrolmen, flying fast and low. The machine made a dizzy sideslip and broke one wheel in landing but the pilot managed to check its wild course and brought it to a halt before it crashed into one of the hangars near the main office.

Tim was one of the first to reach the plane and helped pull a white-faced flyer from the cockpit. The army man had been shot through the right shoulder and his arm hung limp and useless. He had managed, somehow, to land with only one hand on the controls.

“What happened, Kennard,” demanded Captain John Talbot, commandant of the Nogales field.

“Ran into a chap trying to cross the border,” replied Lieutenant Ned Kennard, “and he decided to shoot it out with me. You’ll find what’s left of him about twenty-five miles west of here.”

Tim pieced the story together and secured enough material for a dandy yarn on the first airplane battle along the border. He hastened into town to the telegraph office where he filed a 1,000 word story to the News. When he returned to the field after lunch he found a message from Carson, congratulating him on the story. Tim’s yarn had been much more complete than the story carried on the press association wires and had reached Carson’s desk two hours before it came through the regular channels. It had enabled the News to score a clean beat on their rival afternoon papers in Atkinson on the big story of the day.

Tim was forced to wait a few minutes before he could obtain an interview with the commandant of the field. When he finally entered Captain Talbot’s office, he received a cordial greeting.

“I understand you want permission to cross the border and hope to get pictures of Lopez and his rebel camp,” said the commandant.

“That’s right,” said Tim, “and I’ll appreciate all the advice and help you can give me.”

“Then my advice is don’t go,” replied Captain Talbot. “General Lopez is a thoroughly capable military man but his chances of success are slim. Even now he has been driven into the mountains of Sonora and only his air force of a dozen planes has saved him. He may have to make a break for the international border almost any day and he doesn’t want his picture broadcast. As it is now, I haven’t any idea what he looks like for we have no photographs. But if you succeed in your mission he will be recognized instantly at any border post.”

“Do you think the revolution Lopez has started is justified?” asked Tim.

“No, I don’t,” said Captain Talbot, emphasizing every word. “I’ve been on the border for ten years now and I know Lopez is nothing more than a bandit, and not a very high class one at that. He’s using the revolution as a guise to rob banks, loot towns and generally blackmail all of the business interests in the territory which he controls. It’s simply banditry on a wholesale scale and when he gets his pockets filled, he’ll slide across the border and leave his subordinates to face the federal firing squads.”

“Nice sort of a fellow, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” said the military man. “Nice when you have him in front of you where you can watch him every minute.”

“I’ve been assigned to get pictures of Lopez and that’s what I’m going to do,” said Tim. “It looks like I may be helping a lot of poor fellows if I do get those pictures and spread Lopez’ likeness all over the front pages.”

“I don’t envy you the task. You’re putting your head in the lion’s mouth and you’ll be so far down in Sonora that we won’t be able to help you. If you were only ten or twelve miles across the border, we might help for we stretch the boundary once in a while when our people get in trouble,” said Captain Talbot while a slight smile played around the corners of his mouth.

“I might as well make plans to start first thing in the morning,” said Tim, “and if you’ll lend me a bucket of dope, I’ll paint out the sign on the side of my plane. It would be fatal to go barging into Mexico with that kind of an identification for everyone to shoot at.”

Captain Talbot agreed to let Tim have all the material he needed and also assigned a mechanic to help him. By late afternoon the Good News had been completely disguised and some fake bullet holes, to indicate a clash with the border patrol, were made in the wings and the fuselage.

Tim had decided on the role he would play. He intended to stake the success or failure of his plan on a bold approach of Lopez’ camp, where he would present himself as a free lance flyer ready to join the rebel cause.

The next morning Tim secured the latest information on the whereabouts of the rebel chieftain and found that Lopez was near Cedros, three hundred miles south of the border and well into the mountains of Sonora. From that guarded retreat he was directing his army while his flyers made raids on the federal troops who were massing for an attack on his mountain stronghold.

With the good wishes of the border patrolmen ringing in his ears, Tim took off from the field at Nogales and headed south, following the line of the Southern Pacific of Mexico. For a hundred miles he followed this course, then angled southeast. In a little more than two hours and a half he was well into the mountains, and according to his map, should be nearing Cedros, the village where Lopez had established his headquarters.

A sharp droning caught Tim’s attention and he turned to find a black monoplane bearing down on him. Twin machine guns, mounted on the cowling, were belching tracer bullets in his direction. One thing sure, Lopez’ watchdogs of the clouds were on the alert.

Tim had no intention of being shot down and although he was confident the Good News could outrun and out-maneuver the other plane, he concluded he might just as well start his little game. He gripped the stick between his knees and held his hands above his head as the other plane overhauled him.

The pilot of the black craft stopped his chattering guns and motioned for Tim to precede him through a gap in the mountains. In less than five minutes they were over the sheltered valley where the village of Cedros nestled close to the mountain-side. It was an ideal retreat for the rebel chieftain, practically inaccessible to the federal troops and easily defended from the air.

Tim, obeying orders from the other pilot, landed in a small field a short distance from the village. He shut off his motor and waited for his captor to approach. The pilot of the black monoplane was a chunky little man with fiery red hair and watery blue eyes.

“What are you doing down here?” he demanded, as he came up to Tim’s plane. He carried a revolver strapped to his waist but made no motion toward it. “You’re nothing but a youngster,” he added.

“I’m looking for General Lopez,” said Tim. “I heard he was paying good money for flyers.”

“You’ve found Lopez all right,” said the other airman. “This is his headquarters and unless I’m mistaken, he’s hot-footing it down here right now. You’d better tell a straight story or he’ll make you wish you were never born.”

Tim saw a pudgy, brown-skinned little man in a khaki uniform with an abundance of gold braid, strutting down the road that bordered the field. Trailing him were half a dozen officers of nondescript rank.

“Better climb down,” muttered Tim’s captor.

The flying reporter slid out of his plane and lounged against the fuselage, as he watched the approach of the rebel leader. So this pig-eye lump of a man was the leader of the revolution. Tim felt a surge of disappointment for Lopez was anything but what he had pictured him. Tim had visualized a tall, clean cut man with a forceful personality and he felt cheated at what he saw.

As the general approached, Tim’s captor drew himself to attention and saluted. Tim thought it might make a good impression if he did likewise. His hunch was right for he saw a flash of pleasure in the eyes of Lopez.

The general wasted few words.

“Who is this man?” he demanded of the other flyer. The pilot of the rebel plane told how he had sighted Tim and brought him to Cedros. He added that Tim had told him he hoped to join the rebel air force.

Lopez turned on Tim.

“So,” he said, “you wish to join us.”

Tim nodded.

“Who are you and where do you come from?” The words cracked through the air like a whiplash and Tim was startled by the forcefulness of the question but he had planned carefully for just such a moment.

“I’m Tim Murphy of Blanton,” he replied, “and out for anything that promises good pay.” Tim had decided to use his own name but not that of his home town.

Lopez was appraising him through half-closed eyes and Tim felt them boring into him, searching for something false in his appearance. Whatever the rebel chief’s shortcomings might be, he was a man of decision.

“You can join us,” he said, “at $200 a week, but one bad move and—.” Lopez did not complete the sentence for a plane careened through the gap in the mountains and settled down swiftly on the field.

Tim, who was busy surveying his new surroundings, paid little attention to the newcomer until the pilot climbed out of his cockpit and took off his helmet.

Then he found himself staring into the eyes of Daredevil Dugan!

Before Tim had time to speak or motion Dugan to silence, the daredevil was striding toward him, hand outstretched.

“How’s the flying reporter of the Atkinson News?” he cried.

Tim looked about him quickly. There wasn’t a chance in the world for an escape. He’d have to face the music and he wondered if Dugan’s words had been intended to get him into trouble.

“So!” the words hissed from Lopez’ lips, “you’re a flying reporter.”

There was no use in denying and Tim felt that he might have a better chance if he told the truth. Without hesitation, he told who he was and why he had invaded the stronghold of the rebel chief.

“Well, well, well,” drawled Lopez, “now isn’t that nice of you to come down and see me. I’ll be only too glad to pose for you. Suppose you get your camera out and take some pictures.”

Tim wondered what the rebel’s game was but he obeyed the orders and snapped Lopez in half a dozen different poses. The rebel leader’s vanity irritated him and he would like to have punched his stubby little nose but that would only have spelled more trouble. When Lopez was satisfied that enough pictures had been taken, he turned accusing eyes on Dugan.

“And now Mr. Dugan,” he said in a half whisper, “I thank you for telling me who this man is. He’s not going back to the border and neither are you.”

“What do you mean?” cried the daredevil “That you’re not going back to the border. That’s plain isn’t it. Both of you know too much now. Besides, I never fully trusted you Dugan and this is a good excuse to put you out of the way.”

“You can’t get away with that,” cried Dugan.

“Oh, I can’t? Well, who’s to stop me?” There seemed to be no immediate answer to that question and Tim and Dugan proceeded down the road in the direction of the village, two dirty little soldiers with drawn bayonets at their heels.

When they reached the plaza at Cedros, General Lopez ordered them thrown into the village jail, a filthy one-room structure with high, barred windows.

“You might have given me a break, Dugan,” said Tim when the door had clanged shut on them. “There wasn’t any special reason for your shouting my name all over the countryside, was there?”

“I’m mighty sorry about that, Tim,” replied the daredevil and there was a convincing ring of sincerity to his words, “I was surprised to see you and didn’t realize what I was saying.”

“Do you think Lopez will keep us here long?”

“Think? I don’t have to think. After what he said back there at the field, it may be curtains for us.”

“He wouldn’t dare put us out of the way for good,” protested Tim.

“Yes, he would,” replied the daredevil. “Lopez is in a desperate situation. If you took those pictures back to the border he would be instantly recognized when he tried to make his getaway. He’ll go to any end to keep his pictures from being broadcast all over the U. S. A., and especially along the border.”

“That’s just what Captain Talbot of the border patrol at Nogales told me,” said Tim. “He advised me not to make the trip down here and it commences to look like he was right.”

“Talbot’s got some fine flyers,” said Dugan dryly. “One of them chased me for fifteen minutes when I crossed the border and shot my wings so full of holes I thought I was flying in a sieve.”

Their conversation was interrupted when the door swung open and an officer ordered them to follow him. They were escorted across the plaza to the only hotel in the village, a straggling adobe structure where the rebel chieftain made his headquarters.

General Lopez wasted no words when they faced him.

“My council of war,” he began as he pointed to a half dozen grinning officers at his side, “has decided that you are dangerous to our cause. This man,” and he pointed at Tim, “has made a deliberate attempt to jeopardize my own life, while you,” and he snapped the words at Dugan, “know too much for your own good.”

The revolutionary leader paused for a moment to give weight to his next words.

“Therefore,” he said slowly, enjoying every moment of the little drama in which he was the chief character, “the council has decreed that you shall die at sunrise tomorrow.”