  Shortly after daybreak that morning, Bill Bolton spiralled his small two-seater down to a crosswind landing on a field back of Pawling, New York. The monoplane bumped onward over the rough stubble for a few yards and stopped. Bill stripped off his headphone and turning in his seat, faced toward Osceola and Ashton Sanborn who were wedged into the rear cockpit. The field, though comparatively level, was high on the mountain side. From where he sat he had a lovely view of a wide valley and a village nestling amid the trees near the base of the mountain. But Bill ignored the view. He seemed rather put out this morning. “Well, here we are,” he announced grumpily. “I hope you’re pleased. Orders are orders, but if you ask me, Mr. Sanborn, I think it’s the bunk.” The two aft got out of the cockpit and Sanborn walked forward to Bill who was glaring at the instrument board. “Sorry, old man,” the detective held out his hand. “Won’t you wish me luck?” Bill turned his head quickly and smiled at his friend. “Of course I will, Mr. Sanborn,” his tones carried sincerity. “Here’s the best of luck to you, and a full bag!” They shook hands. “I know,” said Sanborn, “that both you and Osceola feel badly about this. But you two fellows constitute our rear guard—and believe me when I say that you’re undertaking a very grave responsibility.” Osceola came up and laid an affectionate hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Good hunting, boss. Neither Bill nor I are ever quite ourselves so early in the morning, and especially so after a heavy night.” “Oh, I know I’m a grouch today.” Bill laughed, though not very convincingly. “But it’s a disappointment, after what we three have been through on this business, not to be in at the finish. Don’t apologize for me, Osceola. I know I’m acting like a spoiled kid—I’ll get over it after a while.” “If the Professor spots my men and Captain Simmonds’ police,” said Sanborn, “his plane won’t land. Then it is up to you fellows to get after him, and I give you carte blanche—you can do as you like about it.” “Force down the Fokker and capture the villain,” said Osceola. “If we can.” “That’s the idea,” replied Sanborn cheerfully. “Only,” said Bill, “Professor Fanely won’t spot the secret service men and the police because they’ll be too well hidden. All that you and I will get out of it, Osceola, is a rotten view of the battle, half a mile away, from those trees over yonder. It’s a grand life, this secret service stuff—if you like it!” “I’ll tell you one thing, Bill,” promised the detective, “if this raid is pulled off successfully, and we round up the cartwheel gang in their lair, the people of the United States will have you to thank for saving them from the most frightful menace that has ever threatened this land of ours. And I’ll see that you get full credit.” Bill leaned over the side of the cockpit. “Why, that’s the bunk, too, Mr. Sanborn—and you know it. Osceola found the first winged cartwheel and—” “And ran it to a dead end,” supplied the chief calmly. “You were the brains of this piece, Bill.” “And you also put in plenty of grit and brawn,” amended the secret service man. “Heck, no. How about yourself, Mr. Sanborn? You’ve been running the show.” “But if you hadn’t saved my life last night, Bill, my boy, I wouldn’t be running anything. And as the Chief says, without your brains, the winged cartwheels mystery would have remained unsolved—and I would still be watching poor Kolinski, over at Heartfield’s. No, Bill, you’ve played the lead in this piece, there’s no disputing it.” Bill grinned and shook his head. “Sorry I can’t agree with you.” He leaned back in his seat and twiddled the stick. “Here comes Captain Simmonds. I reckon it’s time you and I, Osceola, pushed this bus into the shade of those trees. No need to give any more publicity than we have to, to our whereabouts.” The State Police Captain strode across the field. “Morning, everybody. The men are posted, Mr. Sanborn. We’ve got the Mizzentop hotel completely surrounded. When Fanely arrives we’ll rush the plane and the house at the same time.” “You won’t, unless you hurry—” Osceola’s sharp ears had detected a distant hum in the air to the southeast, “here comes the Fokker now!” Simmonds uttered an exclamation of fury. “Tarbell is in charge. He’ll handle things all right.” Sanborn though seriously disturbed, was outwardly calm. “Stupid of us not to expect Fanely earlier. But you and I had better hop it, Captain.” The big airplane appeared suddenly over the top of the mountain; then, just as suddenly went into a steep right bank. “Wait!” Bill snapped out the order. “They’ve seen us! Swing this bus into the wind. If that Fokker gets away now, we’ll have it to do all over again.” The three on the ground grasped the situation instantly. They took hold of the tailplane and slewed it round in a quarter circle, as Bill switched on the ignition. Almost immediately, the inertia starter set the propeller revolving, and Osceola taking a running leap half vaulted, half climbed into the rear cockpit. They were moving slowly over the rough ground now, the engine roaring. With his feet on the rudder pedals and right hand on the stick, Bill adjusted helmet and goggles as the engine warmed up. Then he cut down the throttle speed and clapped on his phone set. A twist of the head told him that Osceola was secure, and he roared the engine into twelve hundred revolutions per minute. They were rolling in earnest now. Bill lifted his ship off the ground with the engine beating a steady tattoo. Then he opened her up wide and pulled back on the stick. They climbed steadily, heading after the Fokker, which now was but a dot to the southward, and bucking a twenty mile wind from the sea. The air was slightly bumpy, and sharp knocks on the bottom of their fuselage gave the impression of rolling over cobble-stones. Far above the roaring plane, little clouds, like balls of fluff, swam in the light ether. At fifteen hundred feet, the approximate altitude of the Fokker, Bill leveled off. The distant shape which had been growing smaller, now appeared to remain constant. “We aren’t gaining any!” Bill heard Osceola’s voice through his ear phones. “Oh, yes, we are! But you can’t notice the gain at this distance. That Fokker can’t do better than 118 m.p.h. high speed. I can squeeze 135 out of this crate.” “But they’re miles ahead, Bill. If old Fanely takes a notion to have his pilot land him, all we’ll find is the deserted plane when we get there.” “I know it, you old fusser—that’s why we’re going to climb again—Perhaps you aren’t aware that it’s bad business to change temperature too quickly?” “But why go higher?” The young Seminole sounded annoyed. “We’ll lose speed climbing—and it will take us longer to land at the finish.” “Think so? Well, it’s the only way we can possibly catch up with them in a hurry.” “I can’t see that.” Osceola was frankly puzzled. Bill pulled back the stick and sent them hurtling upward again. “See those clouds up there, Redskin?” “Better than you, probably, Paleface. What about ’em?” “Which way are they moving, dumbbell?” “Toward the southeast—great snakes, that’s the way we’re flying, isn’t it! I thought we were bucking a stiff wind.” “We are—but there’s another strata of air up yonder, and the current is blowing those clouds in the direction we want to go. If Fanely’s pilot had the sense of a louse he’d stick that wind on his tail as we will do, instead of bucking half a gale down here.” “Thank you,” said the Chief. “Compliments are flying like airplanes this morning.” “Don’t mention it, old top. I don’t think the Fokker is coming down yet awhile, though.” “That’s good news. How do you figure it?” “She’s over the Sound now, and heading for the Atlantic via Long Island.” “That’s queer—they can’t be running off to Europe!” “Not a chance—unless they’ve got extra fuel tanks aboard, and brimful at that.” “What do you think the old bird’s up to?” “How should I know?—Something nasty, without doubt. Got a rifle handy?” “You bet.” “Then get it out. See that your safety-belt is on tight, too. I’m going to worry them some when we catch up. Don’t fire unless I give the word, though.” Osceola grunted something that Bill didn’t catch. The little Ryan was racing in level flight once more, roaring through the misty fluff balls with a thirty mile wind from behind. Far below, Long Island Sound appeared, a strip of dazzling silver between the Connecticut shore and the long narrow island from which it takes its name. Beyond, the blue Atlantic shimmered in the bright sunlight. The Fokker, still flying at the same low altitude continued to head out to sea. Bill knew that he was lessening the distance between the two planes with every revolution of the Ryan’s propeller. He figured their ground speed at not less than one hundred and sixty-five miles per hour. In amazingly short time the little ship closed up on the big one. “Get ready for a nose over!” Bill’s voice was steady and strong. Zing!!! The streamline steel tubing of the forward wing strut on the port side buckled slightly. “Fire at will,” barked Bill into his transmitter and pushed forward the stick. Over nosed the Ryan and with throttle wide open, she roared down on the Fokker’s tail. From the rear and above came two deafening detonations, and Bill saw the stabilizer and elevator to port and starboard of the Fokker rudder disappear into thin air. For an instant the big bus reeled drunkenly, then shot nose first for the sea, fifteen hundred feet below. With wings creaking, Bill brought the Ryan up on an even keel, then banked. On the surface of the ocean there rose a cloud of spray. The Fokker had disappeared from sight. “Gosh!” cried Bill. “That was a quick one!” “I’ll say so. They must have drowned like rats in a bucket—or do you think any of ’em will come up?” “Not a chance. They died when she struck. Think of the speed they were traveling! I could hardly see her nose under. Well, they started the shooting. That’s why old Fanely led us out here.” “Didn’t want a gallery from below watching eh?” “That’s my guess. Gee whiz, you certainly got in a couple of pretty ones! What have you got in there—a three-pounder?” “Your father’s elephant gun—” Osceola told him. “And explosive bullets. Another shot, and I’d have had the whole tailplane off.” “Well, you’ve got no kick coming,” said Bill. “Let’s hike for home, shall we? Nobody will ever see Professor Fanely and Mr. Lambert again. You’ve saved the government a big expense this morning, Redskin!” “Oh, there’ll be plenty of trials for the newspapers to grow rich on out of this business, Bill.” “Yes, I reckon Sanborn and the police corralled a bunch of winged cartwheels at the factory while we were away on our joy-ride.” “Sure—and look! Look, Bill!” Their chase had led them miles to the southeast and now they were approaching New York City on their return toward Connecticut. They were speeding over the Narrows, heading up the harbor when Osceola uttered his exclamation. High over the Battery, and downtown Manhattan, a skywriter was at work. Together the lads watched the airplane spell out its gigantic smoke letters above the city. “BOLTON SAVES NATION “That’s enough—” cried Bill in a disgusted voice, and headed the Ryan over Brooklyn. “Fast workers, aren’t they? Well, it looks as if Mizzentop has fallen.” “I guess it has. Remember what Ashton Sanborn said about you getting the credit?” “Yes, I do. He’s kept his promise all right—confound him!” said Bill. THE END |
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