The managing editor of the News jumped from the car before Ralph brought it to a stop and ran toward Tim.

“Can you start on another assignment right away?” he asked.

“Whenever you say, Mr. Carson,” replied Tim. “We’ve just made a complete check and the Good News isn’t hurt in the least. She’s refueled and ready to go.”

“Then you’re heading for Cedar river valley,” said the managing editor. “Here’s the situation. The village of Auburn you took food and medical supplies to last spring when the Cedar was on a rampage is in need of help again. The river is causing trouble and the worst ice jam in the history of the country is just above the village. This changeable weather has kept the river thawing and then freezing and thousands of tons of ice are piling up behind the jam. I want you and Ralph to make a trip there this afternoon, survey the situation, get all the pictures you can, and report to me. When we know the size of the jam we can plan to get relief to them.”

“We’ll be on our way in ten minutes,” promised Tim. “The people at Auburn helped me when I was working on the Sky Hawk mystery and I’ll be glad of the chance to do another favor for them.”

“In the excitement of this new story,” said the managing editor, “I almost forgot to tell you how much I appreciate your fine work in getting the pictures of the fire at the oil tanks. I’ve never seen anything like them for action. They were so good we put out an extra with nothing but pictures on the front page. Biggest selling extra ever published in Atkinson.”

“They may prove fairly expensive by the time you pay the cost of a new coat of paint for the Good News,” said Tim.

“Hang the cost of the paint,” exclaimed the managing editor, “Those pictures were worth $500 to the paper. Why the one showing that piece of steel hurtling up out of the smoke and flame is the best action picture ever taken.”

“The what!” said Tim.

“The picture showing that piece of steel coming toward you,” repeated Carson.

“I’ll explain,” said Ralph, and he turned to Tim. “We had a lucky break,” he continued. “When that explosion caught us I had only one plate left in the camera. In the excitement I snapped the shutter and it so happened that the camera was aimed to get that steel plate that almost wrote 'finish’ for us.”

“We’ll be able to sell that picture all over the country,” said the managing editor, “And I’ll see that you boys get half of whatever the paper makes on it.”

Carl Hunter came out of the administration building to report that the weather in the direction of Cedar Valley was fair.

“Better get into some heavier clothes,” he warned, “For it will be pretty breezy up there if Tim decides to step on the gas.”

“Our winter flying outfits are all in town,” said Ralph. “Guess we can make it this way.”

“I’ve got some spare clothes,” suggested Hunter. “Some of them belong to 'Tiny’ Lewis but they’ll keep you warm at least.”

The young reporters laughed at the thought of wearing “Tiny” Lewis’ flying togs. “Tiny,” was the exact opposite from his name. He was as round as a barrel and not much over five feet six in height.

The boys followed Hunter back to the administration building and made their way to the pilots’ room. Hunter opened several lockers and finally found the clothes he sought, heavy fleece-lined coveralls especially designed for cold weather flying.

When the boys had donned their ill-fitting clothes they looked like a pair of aerial scare crows for their legs projected awkwardly from the suits, which were far too short for them.

“Throw a couple of robes over your legs and you’ll be all right,” suggested the field manager.

“Not for me,” grinned Tim. “Ralph can bundle up all he wants to but I’m not going to have a blanket tangled around the stick just about the time I have to get into action.”

When the boys returned to No. 5 hangar the mechanics had the Good News warmed up and on the line.

The managing editor looked at his watch.

“Just a few minutes after one-thirty,” he said, half to himself, half to his star reporters. Then aloud he said, “You won’t be able to get to Auburn, snap your pictures and get back here in time for the city final. However, if you get some good shots we’ll put out a five o’clock picture extra so step on it all the way.”

“We’ll be back in less than two hours,” promised Tim. “Wouldn’t be able to do it with the old motor in the ship, but with this new power unit we’ll do 180 an hour steady over and back. The trip is about 125 miles each way and with the time it takes for the pictures we’ll make it in two hours easy.”

“Then I’ll have the engravers and the composing room stand by for a five o’clock picture extra,” said the managing editor. “This will be a red-letter day in the history of the News—two picture extras in the same day and believe me, boys, that’s what the readers want. Pictures, action, and more pictures. Now get going.”

Ralph lifted his big camera into the front cockpit and settled himself for the trip. He wrapped a heavy robe around his legs for he knew Tim was going to tear loose on the trip to Auburn and even though it was moderately warm on the ground the air at two thousand feet would be chilly.

Tim checked his instruments, waved for the mechanics to get in the clear, and opened his throttle.

The Good News lifted her tail off the muddy field, splattered the water out of half a dozen puddles, and then shot up into her own domain.

The new radial motor, tested in flame and smoke little more than an hour before, leaped to its task and they sped away into the east. Behind them the fire still raged at the oil tanks, but firemen appeared to have checked its spread.

Tim pushed the throttle steadily forward until the air speed indicator registered 175 miles an hour. At 2,000 feet the ground was a dull, gray checkerboard beneath them. In places there were splotches of dirty snow, a last vestige of winter. Creeks, silver ribbons winding through the countryside, were running bankfull of water. Several times they sighted streams in which the outgoing ice had jammed around some bridge or sharp curve. Behind these jams the stream had spread out until it formed a small lake. None of them were of major importance but at one bridge half a dozen men were busy trying to dynamite the mass of ice which was threatening the safety of the structure.

As they neared the valley of the mighty Cedar the country became rougher and there were fewer fields for an emergency landing. A plane in trouble in the valley would have small chance of making a safe descent.

They were fifteen miles from Auburn when they caught their first glimpse of the river, a great lake stretching for miles up its valley.

Then they saw the jumbled mass of ice above the village. The towering blocks had jammed at a sharp bend in the river and hundreds of tons of ice, born by the spring freshets, had built a great dam which was impounding the waters of the river.

The bed of the stream below the ice jam carried little more than a trickle of water when compared to the usual volume.

From the position of the jam Tim could see that unless the pressure was relieved soon the water behind the ice, spreading out over the valley, would soon creep around the wings of the jam and sweep down on the village.

The Good News slid down out of the clouds and swung over the scene of the impending disaster. The village was practically deserted. Men and women were at the jam, working side by side in what appeared a futile effort to start the thousands of tons of ice moving down stream before their own homes were destroyed.

Tim guided the Good News up the valley, over the jam, and on up stream. The jam of ice extended nearly a half mile above the village. The river above that point, running free, was piling more ice on the jam, adding to the pressure which hourly threatened to let go and sweep everything before it.

Ralph, leaning far over the side of the plane, was busy with his camera. He motioned for Tim to return to the village. There they took pictures of the practically deserted town and Tim dropped low enough for Ralph to get some good flashes of the men and women working along the edge of the ice jam.

Just a year before the villagers had helped Tim when he was on the trail of the Sky Hawk and he felt that he owed them a real debt.

They gazed upward as the plane sped over them but they did not recognize the scorched, blackened plane as the Good News. Tim and Ralph waved eagerly, but there was no reply. The villagers were weighted down with despair.

Ralph indicated that he had used the last of the plates in the camera and Tim swung the Good News into the west. He headed back for Atkinson at 180 miles an hour, the motor singing as they shot through the greying sky.

The clouds were dropping on them and by the time they were half way to Atkinson they had a ceiling of less than six hundred feet. Tim tried to rise above the clouds, but they were massed solidly. He climbed to the five thousand foot level only to find himself lost in swirling vapor and with the air growing colder every minute.

Ice started to form on the wings of the Good News and Tim realized the danger. The plane was harder to handle, slower to answer the controls.

Ralph sensed the danger of the higher altitude and motioned for Tim to dive, but the flying reporter shook his head. He was too experienced an airman for a power dive when ice was gathering on his ship.

To have nosed the ship down at 180 miles an hour might be fatal for both of them. With the ceiling probably down to nothing they would flash out of the clouds at high speed with only a few hundred feet of clearance. Normally they could get away with it but with the wings weighted down with ice one of them might snap off when he pulled back on the stick. It was too dangerous to risk. He decided to take his time, come down gradually, and fight the ice as best he could.

The next ten minutes were an hour to Tim as he eased the Good News toward the ground. Little by little they lost altitude. The ship was loggy now with its burden of ice but he managed to keep it out of a dive and they finally levelled off at two hundred feet. Even at that low altitude the clouds were brushing their wings but the air was warmer and the ice gradually disappeared from the wings.

For a few minutes Tim had been too busy with his own troubles to think about those of the villagers back at Auburn, but the danger of the ice past his mind returned to them.

It had been plain to him that unless something was done in the next few hours the massed ice would give way and march down the valley, sweeping everything before it. As towns went Auburn wasn’t much to brag about, but its people were friendly and the village was home to them. Tim, an orphan, knew what it meant to be without a home and he resolved to do everything within his means to help the villagers.

They roared over the suburbs of Atkinson, sped across the heart of the city, and skidded over the ground to roll to a stop in front of their own hangar.

The managing editor was waiting for them.

“Get the pictures O. K.?” he cried.

“Camera full of the best ice photos you ever saw,” grinned Ralph as he eased his cramped legs over the side of the plane and dropped to the muddy ground.

“How is the situation in the valley?” asked the managing editor.

“Critical,” replied Tim as he shut off his engine. “I never saw so much ice in my life. The jam is at a sharp bend in the river just above the village. Thousands and thousands of tons of ice has piled up there and the river is bringing down more every hour. The flow of water below the jam is practically shut off and it’s spreading out above the ice. By tomorrow morning the whole thing will let go and that will be the end of the village.”

“What are the people doing?” Carl Hunter wanted to know.

“Everything they can do,” said Ralph. “All the men and women are out at the jam, working side by side. I saw them plant several charges of dynamite and they might just as well have been five inch firecrackers for all the good it did. There isn’t enough dynamite in this part of the state to move that jam. They couldn’t get it planted in time.”

“I wish we could do something to help them,” said the managing editor thoughtfully.

“If you really want to save the village,” said Tim, “I think I’ve got a plan that will work. Listen.”

In a few words he outlined his plan. The managing editor listened thoughtfully.

“Sounds like it is the only chance of saving them, but you’ll be running a mighty big risk, Tim.”

“I’m willing to take the chance if you’ll let me have the Good News. I’ll have to cover nearly a thousand miles before I can really start work.”

“The Good News and anything else you need is yours,” promised the managing editor.

“Then I’ll get ready and start at once,” said Tim.

“Count me in,” added Ralph.

“Not in this first trip,” said Tim. “I’ve got to fly fast and far and the less weight the faster I’ll go. When I’m ready to start for Auburn again I’ll need you. In the meantime you see that we have at least a dozen flares ready to take with us for it will be midnight or later by the time we reach the valley again.”

Ralph promised to have the parachute flares ready and then followed the managing editor to one of the New’s cars. An extra was being held up for the pictures in Ralph’s camera and after all his duty was to the paper first.

Tim turned the Good News over to the Mechanics for refueling and went over to Hunter’s office to get warm and map out the course of his next flight.

The field manager unfurled a roll of maps and helped Tim check his plans.

“You’re going to get plenty of hours in the air today,” he grinned.

“I know it,” smiled Tim, “And only a little more than three hours ago I was grumbling because there wasn’t more chance for any flying assignments this week.”

Tim took a ruler and laid out his course, an air line from Atkinson to Fort Armstrong, the nearest army post. It was a good five hundred miles and with certain weather ahead Tim knew that he would have to count on three hours for the flight. He should be at the army post by seven o’clock. If he allowed himself one hour at the post he ought to be able to start back around 8 o’clock. Three more hours and he would be back in Atkinson at 11 o’clock. A stop to pick up Ralph, make final arrangements and then into the air again for Cedar river valley.

Every minute counted and after carefully checking his course Tim hurried back to his plane.

“Aren’t you going to telephone the Fort you’re coming?” asked the field manager.

“Carson promised to do that,” replied Tim. “I’ll need his political pull to get the material I need at the Fort. You phone Carson when I take off. Have him tell the army people I’ll drop in on them about 7 o’clock, wind and weather allowing.”

“You’ll make it all right, Tim,” said Carson, “But look out for ice if you go too high.”

“I had a taste of that coming back from the valley,” said the flying reporter. “No more of that for me if I can help myself.”

Enough gas for a four hour flight had been placed in the tanks of the Good News.

The engine, still warm, caught on the first turn and roared into action.

Tim adjusted the pack parachute Carson had brought from the office, settled himself on his seat, and motioned “all clear.”

Water and mud sprayed from the wheels as the Good News picked up speed. Then it lifted off the heavy field, shook itself free of the mud, and climbed the low-hanging clouds.

The ceiling was less than five hundred and by this time the afternoon was grey and a sharp breeze was zipping down out of the north. It would be a nasty night for flying over an unmarked and unlighted course.

Tim followed the air mail trail for half an hour and then turned to his left. Fort Armstrong was now almost straight south on an air line. With prairie country the flight would have been easy but Tim knew that 200 miles out of Atkinson he would run into the Flint hills, a branch of the Great Smoky Mountains which wandered out into the prairie at a most inconvenient angle. If the ceiling was low over the Flint hills, he would be in for a nasty half hour of flying.

The first hour slid away as Tim roared southward at nearly 200 miles an hour. The thunder of his motor roused prairie villages from their winter lethargy and stampeded cattle on lonely farms. Occasionally some farmer, surprised at his chores, shook his fist angrily as Tim sailed over the chimney tops.

The ceiling was still six hundred when Tim sighted the first low ridge of hills that marked the Flint range. He had flown over the territory only once before and that time when he was returning the year before from Old Mexico with exclusive pictures of a rebel leader.

The hills were really ridges of rock, rearing their sharp, bleak heads into the air—a trap for any unwary flyer. To crash on those inhospitable crags would have meant the end for plane and pilot.

Tim lifted the Good News until his wing tips were brushing the massed clouds. Six hundred and fifty was the highest he could go without burying himself in the clouds and flying blind, something which he did not relish.

Tim throttled down to half speed as he reached the first ridge of the Flint hills. He cleared the tops of the crags by two hundred feet and was congratulating himself when another ridge loomed ahead of his spinning prop. The second one bulked higher and beyond he could see a third which buried its head in the low-hanging clouds.

Tim slid over the second ridge and then swung sharply to the right. Perhaps he would find a gap in the third ridge which would let him through. For five minutes he sped along, hunting for some opening that would let him through. He was almost ready to make a blind attempt through the clouds when he caught sight of a break in the hills. It was not more than 200 feet wide but Tim took the chance, banked the Good News sharply, and dove for the opening.

The hills closed in on him and dismal masses of rock on each side waited for him to crash. But he slid through the narrow break and found himself again over the prairie, the hills in the background.

The rest of the trip to Fort Armstrong was easy going compared with the task of getting through the hills and Tim sighted the lights of the army post at five minutes to seven.

Markers on the landing field flashed on when guards heard the sound of his motor and mechanics were waiting to guide his ship into a hangar when he landed and taxied up the runway.

Tim’s body ached from the cold and his legs were stiff and cramped. A mechanic reached up and gave him a hand as he clambered out of the cockpit.

An officer with a captain’s bars on his shoulder, strode into the hangar.

“We were expecting you, Murphy,” he said. “Your managing editor telephoned that you were on your way and we’ve tried to have everything ready for you. How did you find the Flint hills?”

“They gave me the shivers for half an hour,” admitted Tim, “But I managed to find a gap in the third ridge and got through without burying myself in the clouds.”

“You were lucky,” commented the army man who introduced himself as Captain John Nugent, in command of the air force at Fort Armstrong.

“Better come over to my quarters and get warm and have a snack to eat,” suggested the army man.

Tim readily agreed for he was chilled to the bone and hungry.

“I know you’re anxious to start back,” said Captain Nugent, “But you’ll be more alert if you rest a few minutes and fill up with some hot food. I’ve had my boy keep things hot for you.”

“That’s mighty nice of you,” said Tim, “And I expect I’ll save time in the end if I take a few minutes rest here.”

When they reached the captain’s quarters, the army man insisted that Tim take off his things and enjoy a good meal.

“Have you planned your trip back?” he asked.

“Looks like I’ll have to try the Flint hills in the dark,” said Tim. “I’ve got to be in Atkinson before midnight if my plan to help the people at Auburn is going to work. I’m sure that ice jam will go before morning and if it does it’s goodbye to that town.”

“If anything goes wrong with your ship in the hills with the load you’ll be carrying, it will be curtains for you,” said the army man.

“I haven’t had time to think about that,” confessed Tim. “As far as I can see it is the only way to get back in time. I’ll have to bore up into the clouds and take a chance.”

“Columbus took a chance and was lucky,” said Captain Nugent. “However, you’re not Columbus and you’ve had just about your share of luck for one day. Don’t tempt fate too much.”

“I won’t deliberately tempt fate,” said Tim, “But time counts tonight.”

“Would half an hour make a great deal of difference?”

“It might,” replied the flying reporter.

“Half an hour isn’t long when it comes to considering your own life.”

“But I must think of the people of Auburn.”

“If you crash in the Flint hills it won’t help them.”

“True enough. But what else can I do?”

“Go around the hills.”

“That would take too much time.”

“Not more than an extra half hour,” countered the army man. “Look at this map.”

They bent over the map on the table and the army officer pointed out what he considered Tim’s best route for the return flight to Atkinson.

“You’ll have to swing to the east of the hills,” he said, “But your flight will be over level country and you’ll have a chance if anything goes wrong.”

“I believe you’re right,” agreed Tim. “The last thing I’m looking for tonight is a crack-up.”

An orderly came in to announce that Tim’s plane was ready for the return trip.

Captain Nugent put on a heavy coat and accompanied Tim to the runway. The Good News, outlined in the field’s floodlights, was waiting for Tim, motor idling.

Captain Nugent climbed up to the forward cockpit and made a thorough inspection of the contents. Satisfied that everything was ship-shape, he dropped back to the ground.

“You’ve got an even dozen demolition bombs,” he told Tim. “The men didn’t have time to rig a bomb rack on your plane but they did the next best thing. They put the 'eggs’ in a hammock that will carry them without danger unless you happen to crack-up.”

“Pleasant prospect,” smiled Tim.

“But I don’t think you’ll have any trouble if you swing out around the Flint hills,” said the army officer.

“Say, what the dickens have you been doing to this plane?” he demanded as he noticed for the first time, the smoke-blackened condition of the wings.

Tim explained what had taken place earlier in the day and the army officer whistled as the flying reporter told how they had been caught by the explosion of the oil tanks.

“If you’ve had a narrow escape like that today,” said Captain Nugent, “I guess flying the hills at night won’t bother you.”

“I’ve decided not to risk it,” said Tim. “I’m going to go around.”

“The air is getting sharper,” said the army man. “Sure you’ve got warm enough clothes? We’ll be glad to lend you some extra togs if there is anything you need.”

“Thanks a lot,” said Tim. “You’ve been mighty good to let me have these high explosive bombs. I won’t need anything more and now I think I’d better get under way.”

Tim climbed into the rear cockpit, tested the motor, and after waving farewell to Captain Nugent, sent the Good News skimming down the lighted runway.

The motor barked lustily as the plane gained altitude, the lights of the Fort Armstrong were soon lost in the night.

Tim followed the course Captain Nugent had helped him lay out. For more than an hour he sped over the right-of-way of the Southwestern Railroad. Mile after mile he was guided by the dim streaks of steel which were barely discernible in the darkness.

The railroad skimmed the east end of the Flint hills and when the lights of Macon showed in the distance Tim knew he was around the worst barrier. The dreaded hills now lay to his left and behind.

He glanced at his watch. He was making good time. With no unforeseen emergencies he would be in Atkinson by eleven.

The sky had lightened somewhat and Tim now had a ceiling of 1,000 feet. With a greater margin of safety, he opened the throttle wide and the Good News bored into the night.

In the dim light of the instrument board Tim could see the needle on the air speed indicator hovering near the 200-mile an hour mark. He was making more than three miles a minute. That was time! It was faster than Tim had ever traveled.

Then the indicator crept on up. Two hundred and five and then it wavered at two hundred and ten. The motor was not turning over any faster than a minute or two before so Tim knew he must have picked up a good tail wind.

Let’er go! The sooner he reached Atkinson the sooner he would be on the last lap of his trip to Auburn and the nearer the completion of his plans for the salvation of the village. On he roared through the night and the lights of small towns were little more than blurs in a magic carpet.

Far ahead the lights of Atkinson reflected against the clouds and four minutes later Tim was throttling down the motor preparatory to gliding into the airport.

For the first time since leaving Fort Armstrong the load of high explosive bombs which he had obtained at the army post worried him.

Supposing he struck a mud puddle and nosed over? One blinding, shattering blast and it would be all over. So much depended on the success of his landing that he dared not think of failure.

The flood lights came on and bathed the field in a chilling blue brilliance. Tim cut his motor and sidled down, killing speed every second. He glanced at his watch. Ten fifty-five; five minutes to the good.

He was less than two hundred feet above the field when the deafening roar of an incoming tri-motored passenger and express plane drowned the sound of his own motor. Tim looked up and froze at his controls. The tri-motor was coming in from the left, and their paths would cross in less than 300 feet.