Tim fought the controls as the mail plane careened down the clearing in the dim light of the blazing pine torches. He heard, faintly, the encouraging shouts of Boots and Jim as they cheered for a successful takeoff.

The odds were terrific. The clearing was barely long enough for a takeoff with the best of conditions. The ground was uneven and the snow materially checked his speed. Tim waited until the end of the clearing loomed. Then he pulled back on the stick and jerked the plane off the ground. They zoomed into the night sky and Tim breathed easier, but only for a second. The motor missed and he felt the loss of flying speed. He instantly switched to the other magneto and the motor resumed its rhythmic firing. It was just in time for the plane had dropped dangerously low.

Tim circled over the clearing, got his directions, and then headed in a direct airline for Atkinson. The mail plane hurtled through the night at one hundred thirty miles an hour, its maximum speed, and Tim pushed it every mile of the way.

It was hard work piloting the mail for every muscle and bone in his body cried with fatigue. The long hours in the air, and the struggle up and down the mountain had sapped his energy. In spite of the cold, he found it hard to keep awake.

The motor droned steadily and its song lulled Tim into a dangerous state of lassitude. His eyes grew heavy and once or twice he caught himself dozing.

The flying reporter realized fully the danger of going to sleep at the controls and used every power at his command to ward off the sleepiness. He beat his arms against his body, stamped his feet on the floor of the cockpit and even stood up so that the icy blast from the propeller beat against his cheeks. The remedies would be effective for four or five minutes. Then he would feel himself slipping again. Each time it was harder to arouse himself to the task of moving his arms and legs, of standing up and facing the chilling slipstream.

They were not more than twenty-five miles from Atkinson when Tim’s eyes finally closed and his head fell forward. His hands, which had gripped the stick in desperate determination, relaxed and the mail ship cruised on with its pilot asleep in the cockpit.

For three or four minutes all went well. The mail plane, a well rigged craft, maintained an even keel and Hank Cummins and Curly, crouched in the mail compartment with the injured Lewis, had no intimation that Tim was not at his post of duty.

Then a vagrant night wind swept out of the north and caught the plane at a quartering angle. The stick waggled impatiently as though signalling Tim that his attention was needed. Finding no master hand to control it, the stick gave up the job and surrendered to the wind.

The mail veered off to the south, went into a tight bank, and ended up in a screaming nose dive.

The wires shrieked as the air speed increased and the motor added its crescendo to the din.

The plane had dropped one thousand feet and was less than nine hundred feet above the ground when the terrific noise penetrated Tim’s sub-conscious mind.

When he opened his eyes he knew they were in a power dive, heading for the earth at nearly two hundred miles an hour. Without glancing at the altimeter Tim seized the stick and attempted to bring the plane out of its dive.

The motor pulsated with new power and gradually, carefully he brought the nose up. When he felt that the wings would not snap off under the tremendous strain, he levelled off.

Tim looked below. Not a hundred feet away he could see the outline of objects on the ground. Another second or two of sleep and they would all have been wiped out in a crash.

He wiped the cold perspiration from his brow, relaxed just a bit, and set a new course for Atkinson.

Ten minutes later he could see the lights of the city reflected in the sky and in another five minutes he was circling down to a landing on the municipal field.

The great Sperry floodlight, used when the air mail planes were landing or taking off, bathed the field in its blue-white brilliance. It was as light as day and Tim set the heavy ship down as lightly as a feather. He taxied up to the administration building and an ambulance, waiting near the gate, backed down toward his plane.

“They telephoned from the Circle Four that you had found Lewis and his ship,” shouted Carl Hunter as he hurried up to the plane.

“Found him on top of a mountain,” replied Tim. “He’s some smashed up inside but I think he’ll pull through. The mail is still in the plane but two of the boys from the Circle Four are watching it and they’ll start down with it tomorrow.”

The field manager took charge of the situation and they lifted the injured flyer down from the mail cockpit. Lewis was unconscious again but was breathing deeply and freely. The young surgeon with the ambulance gave him a cursory examination.

“He’ll pull through all right,” was his verdict as he swung into the ambulance and it started its dash for the hospital in the city.

Tim was so tired and chilled that he had to be helped from the cockpit. His legs, aching from the cold and the arduous exertion of the day, simply folded up under him.

Hank Cummins grinned at him.

“I don’t feel much better myself,” he admitted. “And gosh, what an appetite climbing a mountain gives a fellow. Let’s eat.”

Supported by the ranchman on one side and the field manager on the other, Tim made his way to the administration building.

“Ralph must have come in early since he didn’t wait for me,” said Tim as they entered the manager’s office.

Hunter did not answer immediately and Tim turned toward him with anxious eyes.

“What’s the matter, Carl?” he demanded. “Isn’t Ralph in; haven’t you heard from him?”

“We haven’t had any news,” admitted the field manager, “but you know Ralph well enough to realize that he can take care of himself in almost any kind of an emergency.”

Tim knew that Ralph was capable and resourceful but he had also had a vivid demonstration of the dangers of flying in the Great Smokies.

“I’ve got to start out and hunt for him,” he cried. “Have the boys get the plane ready to go.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” snorted Hunter. “You’re in no shape to fly. Look at your eyes. You’d be sound asleep in ten minutes and then we’d have to start looking for you. No sir! You stay right here, put some warm food inside and then roll in. The mail planes are going through tonight on schedule and they’ve all been instructed to look for some sign of a campfire in the mountains. Ralph may have found the wrecked westbound, landed, and be unable to get back into the air again.”

There was sound advice in the field manager’s words and Tim realized that it would be folly for him to attempt to fly again that night.

A waiter from the restaurant at the other end of the administration building brought in a tray of steaming hot food and Tim, Hank Cummins, Curly, and Hunter sat down for a midnight lunch.

“There’s just one thing I’d like to know,” said the ranchman. “What in thunder were you trying to do when you started for the ground all of a sudden. I was scared half to death and Curly was shouting his prayers.”

“To tell the truth I went to sleep,” confessed Tim. “When I woke up we were in a power dive and not very far from the ground. I was scared stiff but Lady Luck was with us and the wings stayed on when I pulled the plane out of the dive. Otherwise, we might not be having hot soup right now. And boy, does this soup hit the spot!”

They had nearly finished their lunch when the door opened and the managing editor of the News hurried in.

“They phoned me you were coming in a few minutes ago,” he told Tim. “How are you? Where’s Ralph? Is Lewis all right?”

The flying reporter answered the managing editor’s questions as rapidly as possible and then related the events of the day. He introduced the managing editor to Hank Cummins and Curly and told of the important part the Circle Four men had taken in the rescue of the injured pilot.

“That’s great work, Tim, great,” exclaimed the managing editor. “If Ralph isn’t reported by morning you’ll want to start out again. How about writing the story for the News before you turn in?”

The lunch and opportunity to relax had restored part of Tim’s strength and he was eager to write the story of the day’s happenings. It was all fresh and vivid in his mind. If he went to sleep and tried to write the story in the morning part of the dashing action, the brilliant color of the words, would be lost. He agreed to the managing editor’s suggestion and sat down at the typewriter in the field manager’s office.

With a handful of paper on the desk beside him, he started his story. The other men in the room continued their conversation but they might as well have been in another world as far as Tim was concerned. He was reliving the events of the day, transferring the story of what had happened in the clouds into words and sentences that would thrill the readers of the News the next day.

Page after page of copy fell from the machine as Tim’s fingers hammered at the keys. The managing editor unobtrusively picked them up and read them with increasing eagerness.

In glowing words Tim painted the story of the entire events of the day from the sudden onslaught of the blizzard to the final landing of his plane on the home field. It was a story high in human interest—a story every subscriber of the News would read and remember.

When Tim had completed the last sentence, he turned to the managing editor.

“I’m all in,” he admitted, “And if Carl will lend me a cot in the pilot’s room I’m going to roll in.”

“You deserve a week of sleep,” said the managing editor, as he finished reading the story.

“This is one of the best yarns you’ve ever written,” he added enthusiastically. “Now when Ralph gets in and writes his story—”

Carson didn’t finish. He saw the look of anxiety that his words brought to Tim’s tired, white face and he added quickly.

“You head for bed and we’ll let you know just as soon as we hear from Ralph.”

Tim nodded dully, almost hopelessly, and stumbled into the pilot’s room where he threw himself on a cot. He was asleep before he had time to draw up the blankets.

Half an hour later Tim was roused from his deep slumber by someone shaking his shoulders. Faintly he heard words.

“The pilot on the westbound tonight saw a campfire in the timber along one of the lower mountains. It must be Ralph. We’ll start the first thing in the morning.”