The heavy mail plane was much different from the Good News and Tim spent the first five minutes in the air getting used to the controls and the feel of the ship. The air speed indicator showed one hundred ten miles an hour with a quartering wind.

The sky was clear and the cold air made him thankful for the heavy flying clothes he had donned before climbing into the ship.

The flying reporters had mapped out their plan of action before leaving the field at Atkinson. Tim was to search for Lewis while Ralph would hunt for Mitchell. Lewis, on the eastbound plane, would have been the farthest from the Atkinson field, and Tim gunned his ship hard as he headed for the mountains.

The frosty peaks of the Great Smokies loomed ahead of the churning propeller, ready to snag any unfortunate plane and pilot.

Tim adjusted his headset and tuned the radiophone in on the station at Atkinson. Hunter was talking with the air mail station west of the mountains when Tim broke in with his buzzer signal.

“Any news?” he asked.

“Not a word,” replied the field manager. “Looks like whatever rescuing is done today will have to be handled by you and Ralph. We won’t have extra ships and pilots here until nightfall and that will be too late. You’ll have to find Lewis and Mitchell today.”

“We’ll find them if it is humanly possible,” promised Tim.

They were well into the foothills of the mountains when Ralph signaled that he was going to start his search for Mitchell, who had been on the westbound ship the night before.

Ralph circled downward while Tim continued his dash toward the formidable, rocky crests in the west.

According to all the information available, Lewis should have been on the east side of the divide. Five minutes before the blizzard struck he had radiophoned that he was about to cross the crest of the range.

Tim had been up an hour and a half when he reached the higher slopes and precipices of the mountains. He shoved the mail plane up and up until he was almost to the divide before he started his detailed search for the missing plane and pilot.

Back and forth Tim cruised the mail plane, dodging in and out of canyons, circling over sheer precipices that fell away for a thousand feet, scanning the snow and the rocks for some sign.

The powerful motor was using great quantities of fuel and Tim watched the gasoline gauge with an anxious eye. At nine o’clock he had fuel for a little more than another hour of flying. To have gone back to Atkinson was out of the question. He would land at some village or ranch in the foothills, replenish his gasoline tanks, and resume the search.

Half an hour later he switched on the radiophone and informed the field manager that he was temporarily abandoning his search. Hunter directed Tim to the nearest ranch where fuel would be available and the flying reporter snapped off the radiophone and glided down off the divide.

Ten minutes later he swung low over ranch buildings which nestled in a sheltered valley in the foothills. Below the buildings was a level meadow, the only piece of ground that appeared safe to attempt a landing.

The noise of the airplane motor brought men from the ranch buildings and Tim waved at them.

Smoke coming from a chimney of the ranch house gave him his wind direction and he dropped down on the meadow to make a careful survey. The field, although covered by six or seven inches of snow, appeared level.

Tim gunned the motor, banked sharply, and fishtailed down. The mail plane landed hard, bounced on a low ridge, threatened to dig its nose into a drift, and finally straightened out, coming to a standstill not more than ten feet from a barbed wire fence.

The flying reporter unfastened his safety belt and stood up in the cockpit. His legs ached with the cold, which had crept through his heavy boots and clothing to chill the very marrow of his bones.

Half a dozen cowboys plowed through the drifted snow. They greeted Tim with cheery cries.

“You’re off the trail, Big Boy,” said the first cowboy to reach the plane.

“I’m all right,” replied Tim, “But I’ve been out all morning looking for one of the air mail ships that was lost in the blizzard last night.”

“Someone get caught in the mountains?” another cowboy asked.

“Two planes,” replied Tim. “One of them was the westbound ship and the other was eastbound. They were last heard from just before the blizzard closed down.”

“Gosh,” said the first cowboy, “The Great Smokies are a tough bunch of hills for anyone to be caught in a storm.”

“We’ve got two planes out searching for them,” explained Tim. “I ran low on gas and thought maybe you fellows would have some at the ranch you could spare. It would save me a long trip back to Atkinson.”

A heavy-set, red-faced man had made his way to the green and silver mail plane. He had overheard Tim’s request and stepped up to the plane to introduce himself.

“I’m Hank Cummins, owner of the Circle Four Ranch,” he said. “You’re welcome to all the gasoline you need and anything else we can do to help you.”

Tim introduced himself and found that the owner of the Circle Four and all of his men had read of his exploits as the flying reporter.

“You’re one of the fellows who got the Sky Hawk last year!” exclaimed a cowboy.

Tim grinned and nodded.

The owner of the ranch started giving orders and the cowboys hurried away to fill cans with gasoline and replenish the nearly empty fuel tanks of the mail plane.

Tim crawled stiffly from the cockpit. It felt good to be on the ground again with a chance to exercise his stiffened muscles. He flailed his arms to bring back the circulation and stamped his feet on the ground.

In five minutes the cowboys were back with the heavy cans of gasoline and Tim directed their efforts. A short time later and the mail plane was ready to go again.

“Better come up to the house and have a snack to eat before you start,” urged Mr. Cummins.

“I haven’t any time to spare,” replied Tim.

“It will be time saved,” said the ranch owner. “You get some warm food inside and you’ll be a lot more alert. Come on up to the house and sit down at the table for a few minutes.”

Tim finally agreed and accompanied the rancher to the house.

A Chinese cook served hot coffee, bacon and eggs and the food gave Tim new courage and enthusiasm to resume his gruelling search.

When the flying reporter returned to the meadow he found that the cowboys had appointed themselves a ground crew and had turned the mail plane around. Several of them, armed with shovels, were busy clearing a path through a heavy drift that extended across the middle of the field.

Tim thanked Mr. Cummins for his kindness and promised to send a check to cover the bill for the gasoline.

“That’s all right,” laughed the rancher. “We’re glad to be able to help you.”

The flying reporter climbed into the cockpit, switched on the starter, and heard the motor roar on the second or third time over.

The propeller spewed fine snow in every direction and the cowboys ran for shelter before the driving white particles.

Tim throttled down, aimed his plane down the makeshift runway, and gave her the gun.

The mail ship bounced over the frozen surface of the meadow, swung dangerously as the wheels bit into the soft snow which the cowboys had attempted to clear away, and finally nosed into the air. Tim took his time in gaining altitude and then swung back over the ranch. He waved at the group below and could see them reply. Then he headed into the west to resume his search on the treacherous slopes of the Great Smokies.

Noon found Tim deep in the fastnesses of the mountains, searching obscure pockets and canyons, then roaring along thinly forested slopes where a motor failure would have spelled instant destruction.

One o’clock.

Two o’clock.

Still there was no trace of the missing plane.

The sun had cleared away the clouds of the morning and the visibility was good. The air was a little warmer but Tim was forced to beat his arms against his body to keep them from stiffening in the cold.

The supply of gasoline he had obtained at the ranch was getting low when he knew that he was near the end of the search. There was just enough to explore a distant tier of peaks that swung off to his right. Not much chance of the mail being that far off the regular airway but he didn’t dare let any possibility escape.

Tim scanned the broken walls of rock ahead. There seemed little chance that a pilot could escape if his plane crashed in such a country.

The flying reporter was about to abandon his search when something on the crest of a jagged ridge drew his attention. He swung the mail ship nearer and circled down for a closer view. It looked—it looked—yes, it was, the tail of an air mail plane sticking up above the rocks.

Tim stood up in the cockpit and cried aloud. He had found the eastbound mail!

Was there a chance that the pilot had survived the crash? The question raced through Tim’s mind and he sent the air mail plane hurtling downward.

He levelled off two feet above the peak which had impaled the eastbound mail and circled carefully. He made two complete swings and there was no sign of life in the wrecked plane.

Lewis, pilot of the eastbound, must have been flying blind, attempting to make a landing, when he struck the crag. The mail had evidently hit the peak at a sharp downward angle. The tail had been ripped off and left to serve as a solitary beacon which eventually brought Tim to the scene. The rest of the plane had skidded and bounced along the far slope of the mountain for more than a hundred feet, finally coming to rest in a small clump of straggling mountain pine. The tough tree trunks had crumpled the wings back along the fuselage and Tim had to admit that it was just about as complete a washout as he had ever seen.

There was no ledge along the mountain on which he could make a landing and he had about decided to return to Atkinson and report when a slight movement in the wreckage attracted his attention.

Tim dropped the heavy mail plane as low as he dared and cut his motor down to a minimum. He was not more than fifty feet above the clump of pines which held the wreck of the air mail. From the splintered wood and canvas he saw an arm emerge and then the face of Tiny Lewis, one of the best pilots in the service.

The flying reporter was low enough to glimpse the wild stare in Lewis’s eyes and he knew that the pilot had been knocked out of his senses by the crash. While Tim watched Lewis collapsed and sank back into the wreckage. The motor of Tim’s ship had aroused some inner sense and Lewis had made a supreme effort to make his presence known.

Tim looked about eagerly for a landing field. The nearest level ground was at least three miles down the mountain and on the other side. There was only one thing to do—speed for help. The Circle Four Ranch was nearest and Tim opened the throttle of the mail ship and sped into the east.

He wondered how Lewis had managed to withstand the cold of the night and day. Perhaps he had been sheltered somewhat by the wreckage of the plane.

It was just after three o’clock when Tim roared over the Circle Four ranch house and set the mail plane down in the pasture with little ceremony. By the time he had taxied back to the side of the field nearest the ranch buildings Cummins and his cowboys were climbing the fence.

“I’ve found the eastbound plane and pilot,” shouted Tim, “and I need more gas and a couple of men to fly back with me and help get the pilot out. He appears hurt and is caught in the wreckage.”

Hank Cummins roared orders with great gusto and the cowboys hurried to carry them out. The fuel tanks were refilled in record time.

“You say you needed two men?” asked the owner of the Circle Four.

“It will be a long climb up the mountain,” said Tim, “and we may have to carry Lewis down. He weighs something over two hundred pounds and that won’t be any picnic if he can’t walk.”

“I’ll say you need two men then,” said Cummins. “Looks to me like there’s room for three or four in that mail hole there.”

“There is room enough,” explained Tim, “but remember we’ll have to count on bringing Lewis back with us.”

“We could leave a couple of the boys on the mountain,” said the ranchman. “Give them plenty of blankets and we can send after them tomorrow. Sounds to me like we’ll need lots of help.”

“All right,” agreed Tim. “You pick the men and we’ll get under way.”

Cummins turned to the cowboys, all of whom were eager to make the trip.

“Curly, Boots and Jim,” he called, and three husky punchers stepped up to the side of the plane.

“Pile in boys,” urged Tim. “You’ll have to lay down in the mail compartment and you won’t get a chance to see very much scenery if you put the top down.”

“Leave her up,” cried Curly, “I’ve always wanted to see how this dog-goned country looked from the air.”

“You’re the doctor,” laughed Tim. “Don’t blame me if you get pretty cold on the flight to the mountains.”

Extra blankets for the punchers who would stay in the Great Smokies were stowed aboard and a haversack of food was handed up to the plane. Then willing hands swung the mail ship around, Tim opened the throttle, and they bounced over the meadow and into the air.

In a little more than half an hour Tim circled over the only level ground on the side of the mountain. There was a long, narrow gash that appeared smooth enough for a landing and he set the mail ship down cautiously. The first time he overshot the mark and had to try again. On the second attempt he made a perfect three point and killed his speed quickly.

Tim shut off the motor and climbed out of his cockpit. The cowboys tumbled down from the mail compartment while Cummins tossed the blankets, rope and hand axes after them.

The mail plane was rolled to some nearby trees and securely lashed down. Tim was taking no chances on a sudden wind destroying their means of escape from the mountains.

After making sure that the plane was safe, they started the long climb up the mountain. At times they moved rapidly, especially where the wind had swept the snow off the rocks. But again their progress was heart-breaking, deep drifts forcing them to fight for every foot of headway.

Up and up they climbed, stopping only occasionally to rest. The cowboys were in good physical condition and Tim was glad that he kept himself in shape. The strenuous climb might have killed a man who was not sound in heart and lungs.

The last, long climb was in sight when they stopped for a short rest.

“Boy,” sputtered Curly, “I’m glad I’m not a mail pilot. Believe me, I’ll stay on the ground and chase the dogies. Think of smashing up in a place like this.”

“It is pretty wild,” admitted Tim, “but the boys don’t crack up very often.”

They resumed the climb and managed to reach the crest of the mountain just as the sun disappeared behind a higher range in the west.

The tail of the wrecked plane had been the lone sentinel which had guided them in their long climb. It had been impaled by a tooth-like rock that held it firmly. In the pines on the other slope they could see the wreckage of the plane and the marks in the snow plainly showed the course of the stricken ship.

The rescue party hurried down the steep slope. Tim, in the lead, was the first to reach the wreckage.

“Tiny! Tiny!” he called.

There was no answer.

“Tiny! Tiny!” he shouted and the mountains mocked him with their echoes.

Tim plunged into the wreckage, working toward the place where he had seen the arm and face of the pilot when he had discovered the wreck.

With Cummins at his side, he fairly tore the wreckage apart until they came to the pilot’s cockpit. An arm through a piece of canvas was the first indication that Lewis was still in the plane.

Then they found him! He was wedged into the cockpit. His eyes were closed and he was breathing slowly. His face was white in the gathering dusk.

The cowboys, with their hand axes, hacked a path out of the wreckage and they lifted Lewis from his trap and carried him out into the open where they spread blankets and laid him down.

The owner of the Circle Four, who professed to have a slight knowledge of physical ailments, went over the injured flyer carefully.

“He’ll probably be on the shelf a few months,” he said when he had completed his examination, “but I think he’ll pull through all right.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Tim.

“Looks to me like a considerable number of broken ribs, and a good hard crack on the head that might be a slight fracture, and exposure, of which the exposure is about as bad as any.”

The cowboys built a roaring fire that cast eerie shadows on the wreckage of the mail and then proceeded to loosen the injured flyer’s clothes. Lewis’ body was thoroughly warmed and the circulation restored to his arms and feet before they bundled him up for the trip down the mountain.

It was eight o’clock before they were ready to start the descent. The hours had been spent in cutting a plentiful supply of pine knots which would serve as torches and in fashioning a stretcher on which to carry the injured flyer.

According to the plan outlined by the ranchman, four of them would carry the stretcher while the fifth would go ahead, lighting the trail with one of the pine knots.

The mail flyer was still unconscious when they placed him on the makeshift stretcher but he was made comfortable with an abundance of blankets.

Tim took one of the forward handles of the stretcher, Cummins took the other and Boots and Jim undertook to carry the back end. Curly, his arms loaded with the pine fagots, went ahead to light the way.

The stretcher was heavy and bundlesome and even the short distance to the crest of the mountain was a cruel struggle. They were almost exhausted when they reached the top and put down the stretcher. However, the rest of the journey to the plane would be down hill.

They alternated carrying the stretcher and the torches and made fair progress. When their supply of pine pieces ran low they were forced to call a halt while Boots and Jim hunted up a clump of pines and secured a new supply.

The trip down the mountains required three hours and it was eleven o’clock when they finally staggered into the clearing that sheltered the waiting mail plane.

When they let the stretcher down, they heard the injured flyer groan. Tim bent low over Lewis.

“Where am I? What’s happened?” demanded the air mail pilot, his voice little more than a whisper.

“You crashed in the storm,” replied Tim. “We found you in the Great Smokies and are getting ready to take you back to Atkinson. How do you feel?”

“Kind of smashed up inside,” whispered Lewis.

“Hang on a couple of hours longer and we’ll have you in a hospital,” smiled Tim. “How about it, old man?”

“Sure, Sure,” was the low reply.

The cowboys helped Tim wheel the mail plane around and head it down the narrow clearing. Then they lifted Lewis into the mail compartment and onto the bed they had prepared for him.

Tim turned to the owner of the Circle Four.

“I’d better head straight for Atkinson when I take off,” he said. “Two of the boys will have to stay here and I’ll bring the two who go with me back to the ranch in the morning.”

“That’s all right with us,” agreed Cummins. “Curly and I will make the trip with you and Boots and Jim can stay here tonight. In the morning they can go back and bring down the mail. The boys from the ranch will meet them with horses sometime in the forenoon.”

Boots and Jim took armsful of the pine fagots and hurried down the clearing. They placed flaming torches to light to take off and Tim started the motor while Cummins and Curly crawled into the mail compartment to look after Lewis.

Tim exercised great care in warming up the motor. It must not fail him when he called on it to lift the heavy plane into the night sky. Finally satisfied that the motor was functioning perfectly, Tim settled himself in the cockpit and opened the throttle. The narrow clearing, dimly outlined by the uncertain light of the pine torches, was none too long. The mail plane started slowly, then gathered speed and flashed into the night.