Something was radically wrong and Tim, forgetting for the moment the drama soon to be enacted in the sky, ran toward Ralph. He caught his friend in his arms as he stumbled. Blood was flowing freely from a long gash on the right side of Ralph’s head.

Ralph was on the verge of unconsciousness but he made a heroic effort to speak.

“It’s Tommy,” he whispered. “McDowell’s slashed his chute. If he ever steps over the side he’s gone.”

Tim’s face whitened at Ralph’s alarming words. Tommy’s chute slashed! He glanced aloft. The planes were almost up to 2,000 feet. In a few more minutes they would be rushing headlong toward each other and Tommy would step over the side to hurl like a falling star to the ground. Tim’s eyes closed to shut out the image which flashed across his mind.

Prentiss reached his side.

“What’s happened?”

“I don’t know exactly,” said Tim, “but McDowell’s slashed Tommy’s chute with a knife. Take care of Ralph. I’m going up to stop Tommy.”

“Take him into my office,” directed Carl Hunter, who had arrived on the run and overheard Tim’s words.

Prentiss gathered Ralph in his arms and stalked toward the administration building while Tim and Hunter ran down the ramp.

Tim scanned the field. It would be impossible to get the fast Jupiter which the News owned or the American Ace which he and Ralph operated out of their hangars. He turned toward the other planes on the field. It would take a fast ship to get up there in time to stop the crash of the two planes. His eyes rested on McDowell’s own monoplane. It was trim and fast and the 300 horsepower motor was capable of pulling it almost vertically skyward.

“I’ll take McDowell’s plane,” he told Hunter. The field manager gave him a hand and between them they whipped the ship around and headed it toward the open field.

Tim climbed inside, stumbled over the smashed boards which had hidden the secret compartment, and sat down in the pilot’s seat. The controls were slightly different from the ships he had been accustomed to flying but he knew he could handle the plane without trouble. He glanced at the gas gauge. The tank was a quarter full.

One of the High Flyers ran toward him, protesting on the use of the monoplane, but Hunter waved him back with a curt explanation. Tim turned on the starter and the motor, still warm, caught on the first turn.

He was about to give the ship the gun when Prentiss ran toward him, a rifle in hand. The narcotics inspector clambered into the cabin and slammed the door.

“Let’s go,” he shouted. Tim nodded and opened the throttle. The field had been cleared for the stunt and he sped out of the hanger and rocketed into the air. With the motor taking a full flow of gas, he shot the speedy monoplane into the air. They danced skyward in a crazy, climbing turn that saw the earth dropping away from them.

“How’s Ralph?” Tim shouted.

“He’ll be all right. Got a nasty bump on his head but there’s a doctor patching him up now. He’s weak from loss of blood more than anything else.”

Tim, with the stick jammed back between his knees, was watching the drama of the circling planes. He was careful to keep behind McDowell as much as possible.

The old trainers had levelled off and were jockeying for the first dash toward each other. Tim’s hands gripped the stick hard as he saw them start. Then he relaxed a little. Ace hadn’t waggled his wings. There would be no crash this time.

The old ships soared past each other with little room to spare and Tim almost pulled his own ship higher by the sheer tension he was on.

Tommy was circling slowly for another dash toward Ace when Tim flashed past him waving frantically. In pantomime he went through the motions of jumping and then shook his head vigorously while Prentiss attempted to indicate to Tommy that his chute was damaged.

As he flashed by a second time Tim caught the look of alarm in Tommy’s eyes and saw the other examining the chute pack. There was the sudden roar of another motor and McDowell, forgotten for the moment, shot down toward them.

“He’s after us!” cried Prentiss.

Without looking Tim sent the monoplane into a tight roll and the wings of the old trainer almost brushed their landing gear as they flopped over. A bullet crashed through the bottom of the cabin.

“He’s on to us,” said Tim grimly, “but we’ll keep him busy until Tommy can land that crate of his.”

Tim whipped the monoplane out of the roll. Below him McDowell was hard after Larkin’s plane. It was evident that he was out to destroy the other flyer if at all possible. He was going at Tommy head-on again. This time there seemed little doubt but what the ships would crash in spite of all that Tommy could do to escape the trap. McDowell’s plane was too fast. He met every maneuver of Tommy’s and played him one better.

For the moment he had forgotten Tim in his terrible concentration of destroying the flyer he felt sure had turned in the evidence which would lead to his arrest. If he had not forgotten Tim, he had sadly underrated the flying ability and nerve of the reporter.

With wind screaming past the struts and motor on full, Tim dove headlong toward McDowell. Some sixth sense must have warned his prey for McDowell threw a startled glance over his shoulder. Instantly he changed tactics and left Tommy to make a hurried landing with the old trainer while he took up the new feud with his unforeseen foe.

Prentiss opened the windows on the right side of the cabin and steadied the rifle. There was a grim purpose written on the tensed lips. If he could line his sights on McDowell, the rifle would spit flame and death. Crouched on the floor of the cabin, finger crooked on the trigger, cheek resting on the gunstock, he waited for the chance he felt was sure to come.

Below them the startled thousands watched the deadly duel, craned their necks as the planes twisted and darted through the air, and at times seemed almost to crash before one of them flipped this way or that just in time to avert a catastrophe.

Tim and Prentiss had the advantage of a slightly faster plane but McDowell had a chute. If they crashed he would have a chance of escaping while the flying reporter and the narcotics inspector would be pinned in the falling wreckage of their ship.

McDowell was playing the game for his life. In spite of their danger Tim thrilled to the masterful flying which it required to escape the mad rushes of the other.

For half an hour the grim battle went on. Then it ceased as suddenly as it had started. McDowell, giving his plane a full gun, darted away southwest. He was making a break for safety. With a heavy bank of clouds rolling up in the west, night would drop its mantle early. There was just a chance that he might remain aloft until he could find shelter in the darkness. Tim saw through McDowell’s strategy at once. Undoubtedly the other had a full tank of gas and since the old trainers usually had large tanks, sufficient to keep the ancient craft aloft until after nightfall. The flying reporter glanced again at the gauge on the instrument board of the monoplane. He didn’t need to. He knew what the needle indicated without looking but perhaps there had been some mistake.

The gauge showed only an eighth of a tank of gas. Another half hour in the air; perhaps a little more. Then they would be forced down and McDowell would wing on alone.

Tom leaned back and shouted to the inspector.

“We’ve got only enough gas for another half hour. Want to land now, fill up the tank, and then try to overtake McDowell, or keep after him until our fuel gives out?”

“Something might happen to his ship before our gas gives out. We’ll keep going as long as we can,” Prentiss shouted back.

Tim nodded and set out in full pursuit. In three minutes he was on McDowell’s tail and he throttled down. No use to push the motor any harder than necessary.

The minutes droned on. Tim checked their direction. It was obvious that McDowell was heading for the border. It was a long hop; impossible in one jump, and he wondered where the pilot ahead of him intended to refuel. He probably had some out-of-the-way airport where he could come down, replenish his supply of gas and oil, and get away without being reported.

Fifteen minutes went by the clock. The needle on the gas gauge dropped lower. Probably McDowell, up ahead, was chuckling for he certainly knew the amount of fuel in the monoplane he had left behind.

Prentiss tapped Tim on the shoulder.

“How much longer?”

“Not more than 15 minutes.”

“Close in on him and I’ll see if this rifle can’t convince him that it’s time to come down.”

Tim’s right hand jammed the throttle on full and the trim monoplane leaped ahead, overhauling the old trainer rapidly.

McDowell, hearing the deeper drone of the motor behind him, looked back at them. Tim banked to give Prentiss a clear shot and the federal agent pressed the trigger. Tim could hear the sharp spats of the gun as the bullets sped on their way. Holes appeared in the fuselage of McDowell’s ship. Prentiss was shooting better. McDowell, pointing an automatic at them, emptied the magazine. His aim was wild and not a bullet struck the monoplane.

McDowell put the old biplane into a dive and Tim promptly followed. Twisting and turning, they resumed the battle they had waged over the Atkinson airport. Tim was flying rings around McDowell now and Prentiss pumped shot after shot toward the biplane but the air was rough and it was hard to gauge the distance accurately.

“Concentrate on his motor,” Tim shouted. “We can’t stay up more than five minutes more and you may be able to put his ship out of commission.”

Prentiss filled the magazine of the rifle again and, firing steadily, directed his bullets toward the motor of the biplane. Tim could see the black splashes as the bullets struck the cowling. There was just a chance that he might be able to disable McDowell’s motor.

The motor of their own ship coughed. Tim switched on the emergency tank and it barked steadily again. Their minutes in the air were numbered for he had no way of knowing whether the emergency tank was full or how much it held.

“I’m going to try to bring him down,” Tim yelled at Prentiss.

“What are you going to do?”

“See if I can’t run my wheels through his prop. Hang on.”

“Won’t that wreck your landing gear?”

“We’ll have to take a chance on that. If it does we’ll get down someway. Are you game?”

“Go ahead,” said the inspector grimly. “I’ll try it once. There may not be a second time.”

“I’ll get you down all in one piece,” grinned Tim. Then he turned to the job at hand.

McDowell was just a little above them and about a thousand feet ahead. Gunning the motor hard, Tim climbed above their quarry and with the motor on full, dove headlong for the biplane. McDowell must have sensed what was in Tim’s mind for he stood up in his cockpit and took deliberate aim with the automatic. Bullets plunked into the wing of the monoplane, but Tim kept on. Prentiss’s rifle was silent for the moment for at that angle he was unable to fire.

Down they dropped like an eagle after its prey. McDowell dove back into the cockpit just as the monoplane crashed down on him, the wheels of the ship above almost raking his head. Tim steeled himself for the expected crash as the propeller of the biplane bit into the landing gear but it did not come. By some trick of magic which Tim would never know McDowell dropped the biplane down almost ten feet at the last moment. Or perhaps fate had taken a hand and the ship had struck an air pocket. At any rate the monoplane sped on overhead and McDowell was safe again.

“What happened?” asked Prentiss.

Tim shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe the biplane hit rough air and dropped. I thought surely we had him that time.”

The motor coughed, rapped out a few more revolutions, and then died.

“That’s about all for us,” said Tim bitterly.

“And there goes McDowell,” said the inspector.

The flying reporter scanned the ground for a safe landing place. They were up a little better than 4,000 feet. To their right was a small town and a fair-sized pasture at one edge, flanked by a white highway. Tim nosed the monoplane down. As they glided toward the field he caught the sound of another airplane motor. He glanced up. Perhaps McDowell was coming back. But McDowell’s ship was winging steadily along on the 1,200-mile hop to the border.

“Someone back of us,” said Prentiss. There was no need to shout now and the inspector’s voice sounded unnatural.

Tim glanced back. The ship was familiar. His heart leaped. It was the fast Jupiter owned by the News. Someone had managed to get it out of the hangar and was coming to help them.

The flying reporter opened the window on his left and waved wildly, pointing downward. The pilot of the other plane waggled his wings in understanding and dropped toward the pasture with Tim following him down.

“Looks like Tommy Larkin in the other plane,” said the inspector.

“That’s the News’ ship and I don’t care who’s flying it,” said Tim, “just as long as it’s got a full tank of gas. McDowell is going to be in for a surprise when we shoot up in the Jupiter. That’s an airplane.”

The pasture proved surprisingly smooth and they rolled across the field. The pilot who had brought in the Jupiter had it swung around and had it ready for them when they tumbled from the cabin of the monoplane.

“Tommy!” cried the inspector. “Great work, boy!”

“I couldn’t stay out of this shindig,” grinned the flyer McDowell had planned to destroy.

“What a break,” chuckled Tim. “Plenty of gas?”

“The tank’s full to overflowing. That’s some plane; fast and easy to handle.”

“We’ll have to leave you here, Tommy,” said the inspector. “Maybe you can get gas in this town and fly back to Atkinson.”

“I’ll make out all right,” grinned Tommy. “You fellows get after McDowell. Gosh, I’d like to see his face when you come barging down on him again.”

“He’s heading for the border,” said Tim.

“Yeah. That old tub carried about a ton of fuel and he’s got a field way over in western Kansas where he can land and refuel without trouble. He knows it so well he can even land at night but unless I miss my guess he won’t be in the air by nightfall.”

Tim climbed into the Jupiter and the inspector scrambled in after him. Tim checked the gauges, tank nearly full of gas, motor temp right, oil pressure up. He released the brakes, opened the throttle, and waved to Tommy as the plane shot down the field and rocketed away in pursuit of McDowell, whose plane now was only the tiniest of dots in the southwestern sky.

The Jupiter was fast and Tim cruised along at an easy, mile-consuming 150 miles an hour.

“We’ll overtake McDowell in no time,” he told the inspector, who was busy refilling the magazine of the rifle.

“I’ve only about twenty rounds of ammunition left,” shouted Prentiss. “My shooting will have to improve.”

The dot in the sky ahead grew in size and took on the shape of an airplane. Tim was flying high and there was little chance that McDowell would see them until they were on top of him.

The flying reporter’s thoughts went back to Atkinson. He wondered about Ralph and the wound on his head, and there was no mercy in his heart as he guided the Jupiter on the now relentless chase after the fleeing McDowell.

The outline of the old biplane grew larger and larger as the fast-flying Jupiter cut down the distance. Tim had planned a new campaign of action. In the Jupiter, knowing every movement and capability of the ship, he felt confident that he could ride McDowell into the ground, out-maneuver and out-speed him until the other would welcome the chance to fight it out below.

The Jupiter was flying a thousand feet above the old trainer when Tim dropped the nose down and opened the throttle for a power dive. As they swooped down, he saw McDowell look up, saw the surprise and alarm on the other’s face. Then they were by with less than ten feet to spare between the ships. Tim climbed the Jupiter dizzily until he was back on McDowell’s tail, riding it hard and close. The flyer ahead emptied another magazine at them and then threw his automatic away in disgust. He was out of ammunition. Now it was a case of plane against plane, pilot against pilot, and nerve pitted against nerve for Prentiss was unable to shoot now.

Closer and closer Tim drove the Jupiter. He was just above and behind the biplane, riding it down, relentlessly and with grim intent. McDowell twisted and turned, but always the cream and green biplane rode his tail. He dodged to the right and then to the left, looped, barrel-rolled, but it was all in vain. Tim guessed his every maneuver and went him one better.

“Country’s getting rougher,” cried Prentiss.

“Bad place for a forced landing,” agreed Tim.

They were flying at a little under 3,000 feet and Tim was riding McDowell’s plane down, foot by foot. It was a slow and nerve-wracking process but it seemed destined for success. Once in a while he would veer his ship enough to let Prentiss get in a shot, but none of them found their mark.

The air was getting rougher. Even the steady, easy-flying Jupiter was rocking and pitching and Tim could see that the old biplane ahead of them was bucking hard.

Prentiss turned around.

“Look at the biplane’s wings,” he cried.

Tim watched closely. The wings were flapping, threatening to break loose from the ship at any moment. The chase was nearly over. McDowell would be forced down. Tim glanced at the country below. It was rough and broken, almost impossible for a safe landing.

A startled cry from Prentiss drew his attention back to the biplane. The old ship was breaking up! McDowell had been pushing it too hard, the spins and rolls and loops had been more than the ancient spruce could stand. The right wing was giving way, the top section drooping down in the lower one.