When Tim and Ralph parted in the foothills of the Great Smokies, Ralph took up his search for George Mitchell, pilot of the missing westbound mail.

Throughout the morning Ralph conducted his fruitless quest and when noon came he was forced to turn back from the mountains and seek a ranch or village where he could refuel his plane. Ralph’s ship was slightly smaller than Tim’s and consequently had a longer cruising radius with the same fuel load.

Ten miles north of the regular air mail route lay the village of Rubio and Ralph set the mail plane down in a pasture east of the town. The noise of the plane had drawn the attention of the villagers and they swarmed to the field.

Ralph quickly explained his needs and the owner of the village garage brought out a truck loaded with gasoline. Refueling of the mail ship was soon accomplished and Ralph then hastened into the village where he went to the only restaurant and managed to secure a good, warm meal. He ordered a large lunch prepared and packed and by the time he had finished his dinner the lunch was ready. He paid for the food and walked back to the plane.

Several of the village boys volunteered to hold the wings while Ralph warmed the motor. He gave the new fuel a thorough test and then signalled for the boys to let go.

The propeller sliced through the air and its blast created a small blizzard which hid the crowd of villagers in a smother of snow.

The mail ship gathered momentum, bumped over the uneven ground and finally bounced into the air.

Ralph headed back for the air mail route to resume his search. Back and forth he cruised, confining his search to the foothills of the mountains for there was slight chance that Mitchell would have reached the Great Smokies.

The afternoon wore on and Ralph’s hopes of finding the missing flyer that day lessened. It was slow and tedious work cruising over the rolling hills whose slopes were covered by dense growths of trees, principally pines.

If Mitchell had come down in one of the forests it might be weeks before he would be found.

Ralph was speculating on how long his fuel would last when he saw an irregular gash in the tops of the trees ahead. He swung the plane lower. Something had taken off the tops of half a dozen tall, scraggly pines. It looked as though some giant of the sky had paused a moment, swung a mighty sickle, and then gone on.

A quarter of a mile further Ralph saw a repetition of the broken tree tops. Then he caught sight of the missing mail plane. The tail of the ship was sticking straight up in the air; the nose was buried in a deep drift at the base of a mighty pine. The propeller was splintered and the undercarriage gone but otherwise the plane did not appear to have been badly damaged.

Ralph gunned his motor hard and watched for some sign of the pilot near the wrecked plane. For ten minutes he circled the spot before looking for a landing place for his own ship. In one of the valleys between the foothills he found a small meadow that looked as though it would serve as an emergency landing field. He took careful note of the position of the wrecked plane and then drifted down to attempt the landing.

The meadow was bordered by pines that stuck their spires into the sky and Ralph thought for a time that it would be impossible to avoid their scraggly tops and get into the meadow. He finally found a break in the pines and sideslipped through. Then he straightened out and fishtailed down into the meadow. The pines had protected the meadow from the driving north wind of the night before and the snow had not drifted.

Ralph taxied the mail plane up under the shelter of the trees, lashed it securely, and then prepared for his trip to the wrecked plane.

The young reporter took his package of food he had had prepared at Rubio, ropes and a hand axe and started the climb up the foothills. The snow had drifted but little and he made good progress. In little more than half an hour he reached the scene of the wreck of the air mail.

Ralph shouted lustily, but there was no response. The tail of the big ship was pointing straight into the sky. Ralph could see that Mitchell was not in the pilot’s cockpit.

Then he gasped with astonishment. The door of the mail compartment was open.

Ralph ran across the small clearing and hastily climbed the wings and on up to the mail compartment. One glance was sufficient.

The sack of registered mail was missing!

There was no sign of a struggle at the plane and there was no response to his frantic shouts.

Ralph sat down in the mail cockpit to think things over. His first thought had been that the mail had been robbed. He discarded that belief and decided that Mitchell, possibly unharmed in the crackup had taken the precious sack of registered mail and was attempting to find his way out of the forest and make for the nearest town.

Ralph dropped down from the fuselage and started a search in the snow. It was light and powdery and had drifted just enough to make the detection of footprints difficult. The reporter made a careful search but it was not until he was on the far side of the plane that his efforts were rewarded.

Footprints, almost concealed by the snow which had fallen later, were dimly visible.

Ralph, eager and alert, took up the trail and soon had lost sight of the wreck of the westbound air mail.

The footprints zig-zagged this way and that for it had been night when Mitchell had deserted the plane and started to make his way out of the forest.

Ralph plowed steadily through the snow. The forest was silent except for the occasional call of a snowbird and Ralph felt a mighty loneliness around him. The shadows were lengthening rapidly and Ralph pushed forward with renewed determination.

At intervals the reporter stopped and listened intently for some sound. It was possible that Mitchell might call for help.

Sundown found the reporter far from the wreck of the air mail, weaving his way along the dim trail. Ralph, although little versed in woodcraft, could read certain signs in the dim footprints. He could see that Mitchell had been tiring rapidly. The steps were more uneven and once or twice the air mail flyer had stopped beside some tree to rest.

The light in the forest was fading rapidly and Ralph advanced as fast as possible. Once he lost the dim trail and had to retrace his steps. He begrudged the lost time and when he found Mitchell’s trail started at a dog-trot, but with the coming of the night he was forced to slow down.

The reporter stopped in a small clearing and called lustily through cupped hands. Again and again he shouted and at last he thought he heard a faint reply. Perhaps it was only an echo. He called again and a voice, far away, answered.

Confident that he was near the missing pilot, Ralph hurried forward, bending almost double in order to follow the dim trail. He stopped every few hundred feet and shouted. Each time the reply came clearer and stronger.

Ralph came out on the bank of a small stream. Below, on the rocks beside the creek bed, he saw the crouched form of the air mail flyer.

“George! George!” cried Ralph.

“Down here,” came the reply. “Take it easy or you’ll slip and twist your ankle just like I did.”

In less than a minute Ralph was beside the man he had been hunting and Mitchell told him of the events preceding the crash and how he had attempted to escape from the forest and reach some habitation.

“The storm struck so quickly I didn’t have a chance to escape,” said the air mail flyer as Ralph worked over the twisted ankle. “The snow and ice collected on the wings and forced me down. Maybe you saw where I took the tops off the trees before I finally cracked.”

“Sure did,” said Ralph. “Matter of fact, the only way I found your ship was through seeing those broken tree tops. They gave me the clue that a plane had been in trouble. A little further along I saw the tail of your ship sticking up in the air.”

“I took a real flop,” went on the mail flyer. “Just nosed right straight down and smacked the old earth. I ducked just in time and outside a few bruises wasn’t hurt. Managed to get the sack of registered stuff out and figured I could get out of the woods and reach some ranchhouse or the railroad. Then I fell over this bank, twisted my right ankle, and I’ve been here ever since.”

Ralph chopped some dry wood from a dead tree nearby and soon had a fire blazing merrily among the rocks. He made the mail flyer as comfortable as possible, warmed the lunch he had brought with him and they both enjoyed the meal, the first Mitchell had eaten in twenty-four hours.

After the lunch had been devoured, Ralph turned his attention to the injured ankle. It was a bad wrench but he managed to fix a makeshift bandage that held it firm. After that was done he picked up a blazing piece of firewood and struck out into the night. In a few minutes he was back with a forked branch which he informed Mitchell could be used as a crutch.

Ralph picked up the sack of registered mail and with his assistance Mitchell managed to negotiate the steep slope of the creek valley. When they were in the woods Ralph went back and extinguished the fire.

The reporter returned and helped support the mail flyer as they started the slow and painful journey to the plane which was to be their means of escape.

Mitchell did the best he could but his ankle throbbed incessantly and they were forced to rest every few hundred feet.

After an hour and a half of the gruelling work, Mitchell was exhausted and Ralph decided that it would be best for them to wait until morning before continuing their journey.

He selected a clearing which had only one large tree in the center. Brushing away the snow he cut enough pine branches for a makeshift bed and then constructed a barrier of branches to shield them from the wind.

A fire was started and Mitchell, weak and chilled from his exertions, laid down beside it. Ralph massaged the swollen ankle until the pain had eased and the mail flyer fell asleep.

The reporter busied himself securing enough firewood to last until morning and after that task was completed laid down beside Mitchell in the fragrant pine bows. He dropped into a deep sleep of exhaustion and had slept for some time when he awoke with a terrifying fear gripping his heart.

Blazing eyes were staring at him from the edge of the forest; eyes that burned their way into his mind. A whole ring of them were closing in, creeping ever nearer the fire.

For a moment the terror of the situation held Ralph motionless. Then he leaped into action.

The fire had died low but there was still a few burning embers. He seized the ends of several of these and hurled them toward the hungry eyes.

The flaming brands made fiery arcs through the night. Some of them dropped sizzling into the snow; others struck dark bodies.

Hoarse cries shattered the midnight stillness as the wolves fled before Ralph’s sudden attack. In a second it was over and when Mitchell wanted to know what had happened, Ralph felt as though he had been dreaming.

“Wolves were closing in on us when I woke up,” he explained. “For a minute I was too scared to do anything. Then I remembered that they were afraid of fire and I hurled half a dozen embers from our campfire at them.”

“I never thought of wolves,” said the mail flyer. “Good thing you woke up or we might have become 'A Great Mystery’ or some such thing. It wouldn’t take those timber wolves long to finish a fellow.”

Ralph agreed that the wolves were dangerous and piled new fuel on the fire.

Mitchell still had his heavy service automatic and Ralph appropriated the weapon.

The bright light from the fire kept Ralph awake for a time but after an hour and a half of struggling against fatigue his eyes closed.

Stealthy movements in the forest failed to arouse him and slinking figures emerged from the timber. The wolves were advancing again.

A dozen of the hungry, grey beasts of prey crept nearer and nearer the fire. In an ever narrowing circle they closed in upon their victims, treading lightly lest they make some noise.

Mitchell, exhausted from his long battle through the snow and the pain of his injured ankle, was breathing deeply.

The reporter had fallen asleep sitting up and his head was bent forward as though he was in thought. In his right hand was the heavy .45 caliber automatic.

Closer and closer came the wolves.

Forty feet.

The fire crackled as it bit into a pine knot and the beasts stopped their advance. But Ralph failed to wake up and the deadly circle drew nearer to the little camp in the center of the clearing.

Thirty feet.

Mitchell stirred restlessly and then relapsed into the deep sleep that claimed him.

Another moment and the wolves would spring, their glistening, bared teeth ripping at their victims. They crept closer, crouched for the fatal spring.

The fire was lower, its light making only a dim glow, and through this could be seen the bright eyes of the wolves.

From the heavens came the deep thunder of the motor of the westbound mail. Its echoes filled the night and Ralph awakened instantly.

The wolves, startled by the sudden burst of sound, were motionless.

In the brief second before they leaped, Ralph threw his body across Mitchell to shield the injured flyer from the savage onslaught.

The automatic in his hand blazed, shattering the darkness with shafts of flame.

Bullets thudded into the gray shapes which swirled around the dim campfire.

A huge timber wolf landed on top of Ralph. He felt its hot breath, heard the throaty growl of triumph, felt the muzzle seek his throat.

With desperate effort and strength born of terror, Ralph pressed the muzzle of the automatic against the shaggy grey fur. The shock of the heavy bullet distracted the wolf and it ceased its efforts to kill Ralph and slunk into the shadows.

The reporter crouched over Mitchell, waiting for more onslaughts. The wolf cries continued and Ralph put more fuel on the fire.

In the light from the leaping flames he saw the explanation. His first bullets had brought down two of the huge beasts and their companions, scenting the fresh blood, had turned from their attack and were tearing the stricken wolves to pieces.

Mitchell handed a fresh clip of cartridges to Ralph and the reporter sent another hail of lead in the direction of the wolves.

Fresh cries of pain filled the night but it was not until Ralph had brought down two more of the great beasts that the others slunk away and disappeared in the timber.

“How did they happen to get so close?” Mitchell asked.

“I must have fallen asleep,” admitted Ralph. “First thing I heard was the roar of the westbound plane going over and then I saw a whole circle of hungry eyes looking at us. They were crouched, ready to spring, when the sound of the plane distracted them. It gave me just time enough to get into action with the gun.”

“Good thing you did or all that would have been left of us by morning would be soup bones,” grinned Mitchell. “I’ve had all the thrills I want for one night. I’m not going to risk going to sleep again.”

The reporter and the mail flyer sat up and talked for the remainder of the night.

At the first lightening of the sky, they resumed their journey toward the plane. In the clearing they left the bodies of four wolves and further along the trail they found the body of a fifth, the one which had leaped upon Ralph.

They finally reached the wreck of the mail plane and continued until they came to the clearing where Ralph had left his ship.

“Not any too much room to get out of this pocket,” commented Mitchell as he surveyed the tall pines which enclosed the valley.

“I had to fish tail in and dodge a few trees doing it,” replied Ralph. “But if I got in I guess I’ll be able to get out all right.”

Mitchell rested in the snow while Ralph unlashed the plane and turned it around. Then the reporter boosted the flyer into the mail cockpit and prepared for the take-off. He primed the motor and felt that luck was with him when it started easily.

Mitchell leaned out of the mail cockpit and shouted back at Ralph.

“I know this ship,” he cried. “Let her get a good run. Then pull back hard and she’ll climb almost straight up. Don’t hold her in a climb for more than two hundred feet or she may slip back on back and go into a tail spin.”

Ralph nodded his thanks and made a final check to see that the plane was ready for the attempt to get out of the valley.

Tall pines loomed on every side. Straight ahead there was a slight break in the tree tops he hoped to be able to slide through. It would require skilful piloting but they had passed through so many ordeals in the last few hours that Ralph felt himself capable of meeting the emergency.

The reporter leaned ahead and tapped Mitchell on the shoulder.

“All set?” he asked.

Mitchell nodded.

“Then hang on,” cried Ralph and he opened the throttle and sent the plane skimming through the snow.

The barrier of pines rose ahead of the propeller. Ralph waited until the last second and then jerked the stick back. The wheels lifted off the ground and the ship flashed into the air.

It was going to be close but it looked like they would clear the trees and wing their way eastward in safety. Ralph whipped the plane through the narrow opening in the tree tops. They were almost clear when one wing brushed the snow-burdened tips of the pine. It was just enough to throw the plane out of balance. They lost speed and the nose started down.

Ralph had visions of being impaled on the tops of the trees and he worked frantically to right the plane. Lower and lower they slipped. Then the motor overcame the pull of gravity and they resumed their climb. Two tall trees barred their way and Ralph banked sharply.

There was a sudden jar as though some giant had reached up to pluck the plane from the sky. Then it was over and they were soaring towards the clouds.

Mitchell, who had been watching their progress, relaxed and slumped down into the mail cockpit.

Ralph, perplexed by the last jarring sensation as they cleared the final barrier, wondered what had happened to the ship. The wing tips had not been damaged and the tail assembly was all right.

Determined to find out what had taken place, Ralph leaned far out of the cockpit in order to see the landing gear. One glance was sufficient. The left wheel had been smashed.

Ralph slid back into his seat and gave his attention to the handling of the plane. He had more than an hour in which to decide how he would land at Atkinson.

The sky cleared and the sun peeped over the horizon. The last snow of winter would soon be little more than a memory but it would be a bitter one for the air mail with two planes wrecked.

Atkinson was just waking up when Ralph roared over and circled the airport. He swooped low to attract attention and first on the field was Tim, who had been awakened by the sound of the plane.

“One wheel of Ralph’s ship is smashed!” cried Hunter.

“And I’ll bet he hasn’t got a whole lot of gas left,” said Tim.

“What will we do?” asked Carson, who had returned to the field.

“Take a wheel up to him,” replied Tim.

Turning to the field manager, he asked, “Have you got a spare wheel that will fit that ship?”

“Two of them,” said Hunter. “I’ll have them in in less than a minute.” He hastened to the parts room and returned with a spare wheel. Together they ran to hangar No. 5 which was the home of the Good News. The plane, repainted and with its motor and rigging carefully checked, was ready to go again.

“You handle the controls,” Tim told Hunter, “and I’ll do the plane changing stunt.”

Hunter warmed up the Good News and Tim secured the extra equipment he needed. He tossed a coil of rope into the forward cockpit and put an assortment of wrenches of various sizes into the pockets of his tight-fitting leather jacket. Then he vaulted into the cockpit and signalled for Hunter to open the throttle.

The Good News flipped through the open door of the hangar, made a short run, and then, its powerful motor thrumming steadily, nosed skyward in a steep climb.

Hunter took the Good News alongside the slower mail plane and Tim signalled to Ralph what he intended to attempt. Mitchell, who was now aware of the danger of their situation, was watching anxiously from the mail cockpit of Ralph’s plane. Himself an expert flier, he was fuming impatiently at his helplessness.

Hunter and Ralph coordinated the speed of their planes and Hunter gradually edged over the other plane.

Tim made one end of the rope fast to the cockpit and to the other he tied the spare wheel. He lowered the wheel over the side of the fuselage and slowly let it down until it was just above Mitchell. The mail flyer reached up and took the wheel, untying the rope to which it had been fastened.

Then Tim pulled the rope back, knotted it in half a dozen places, and tossed it overboard again.

“Take it easy,” he warned Hunter as he unfolded his long legs and eased them over the side of the cockpit. The air was cold and clinging to a swaying rope one thousand feet above the ground while traveling ninety miles an hour was no picnic. Little by little Tim slid down the swaying rope.

Ralph watched the controls of his plane like a hawk, creeping nearer and nearer to Tim.

The gap between Tim and the upper wing of the mail plane lessened—almost vanished. Then the flying reporter let go and sprawled on the wing, his hands clutching the forward wing.

The drop had knocked the breath from his body and he gasped painfully. After a short rest he felt his strength returning and started edging toward the center of the ship. Ralph held the plane steady and Tim made good progress. In less than five minutes he was in the mail cockpit with Mitchell.

In a few words the injured pilot told Tim what had happened, of his own crash and attempt to get out of the timber with the registered mail, how Ralph had found him and later fought off the wolves and how they had smashed a wheel in getting clear of the trees surrounding the valley.

Tim told Mitchell that he had found Lewis, the other missing pilot, and brought him safely to Atkinson. That done, Tim took the wheel and slide out of the cockpit and down on to the landing gear.

The axle was only slightly bent and was still strong enough to stand the strain of landing in the snow. Tim worked hard to get the lock nut off the smashed wheel for it had jammed. He finally worked it loose and then dropped the damaged wheel on to the flying field far below.

The new wheel slid into place and he managed to get the lock nut on. The wheel wobbled a little but it would permit Ralph to land in safety.

Tim clambered back into the mail cockpit and motioned for Ralph to land. The pilot brought the mail ship down to an easy landing and taxied up to the row of hangars where they were met by the impatient managing editor.

A photographer was waiting and he snapped half a dozen pictures as Ralph and Tim helped Mitchell from the plane.

The flyer was sent in to town for treatment at a hospital and Tim and Ralph accompanied the managing editor to the News office.

“Don’t you want something to eat?” asked Carson as they reached the office.

“I’ll wait,” grinned Ralph. “If I eat now I’ll go to sleep and you’ll never wake me up. I’ll write the story first and eat afterward.”