  It was later in the evening when Janet was missed. Helen thought her companion had gone to visit some other member of the company and it was well after ten o’clock when she became alarmed and started making inquiries. “Looking for someone?” asked Bertie Jackson, who seemed to be everywhere. “I haven’t seen Janet for several hours.” “Maybe she’s got a date with a boy friend in the desert.” “Janet hasn’t any boy friend and she wouldn’t be dating in the desert,” snapped Helen. “Have it your own way,” retorted Bertie, but as she turned away a sneer distorted her vapid face. Helen finally communicated her fears to her father. “I’ve gone over the entire camp and no one has seen Janet for at least an hour and none of them are sure it was that recent. I’m worried.” Henry Thorne, busy working with one of the writers on a difficult bit of script that needed smoothing up half way dismissed Helen’s fears with a wave of his hand. Then he stopped. “You’re sure she’s not in camp?” he asked. “I’m positive, Dad. Do you think anything terrible has happened?” “Of course not. She’s probably walked out into the desert and has gone too far. I’ll rout out some of the men and we’ll start a searching party.” Curt Newsom was one of the first to answer the call and he muttered to himself when he heard the news. “There’s trouble brewing,” he told Helen. “You stick close to me.” “What do you mean, Curt?” asked Helen, her voice filled with anxiety. “I mean this picture promises to be too big and someone is trying to throw a wrench in the proceedings.” “Some rival company?” “It could be that. I’m not saying, but I’m certainly going to keep my eyes open.” Under the brisk commands of Helen’s father, the ghost town awoke. Men who had been asleep were routed out, cars commandeered, and parties swept away over the desert in search of the missing girl. Curt Newsom, who had brought several horses with him, preferred to ride and Helen went with him. Curt saddled the horses and they swung away into the desert together. Across the almost level floor of the desert they could see the cars swinging in great circles. “They won’t find anything,” said Curt, and after that they rode on in a silence broken only by the steady shuffling of the horses through the sand. At intervals they stopped and Curt’s great voice boomed through the night. “We’d better turn back to camp,” the cowboy star finally advised. “Maybe some of the others have news.” But when they gathered in the ghost town, Helen knew that the search had been fruitless. Each searching party brought back the same report—no trace of the missing Janet had been found. “Everyone try to get some sleep now,” said Helen’s father. “We’ll resume the search at dawn.” Helen went to the room assigned to her and lay down, fully dressed, to try and rest in the short interval before dawn. But sleep would not come and thoughts raced through her head. Something was decidedly amiss and, like Curt Newsom, she could now sense impending disaster to the company. Just what it was or how it would strike she could not determine, but a terrible uneasiness gripped her. Breakfast was served at dawn. Most of the women in the company were on hand to aid in the search, but Henry Thorne called only upon the men. Half a dozen cars were manned and they swung out again to comb the desert floor. “Let them go,” said Curt Newsom to Helen. “We’ll ride. If there are any tracks, we’ll be able to follow them easier.” The tall, well-built cowboy star swung into his saddle and they trotted away between two tumbledown houses of the ghost town. Shadows of the morning were long and heavy, for the sun was just topping the mountains, but Helen, riding close behind the cowboy, glimpsed a footprint in the sand. She reined in her horse and called to Curt, who whirled quickly. “Someone’s been through here,” she said, pointing to where the sand was fairly hard packed. “Anyone could have left a print like that,” replied the cowboy star. “Your nerves are getting the best of you, Helen. Steady up.” She smiled and they turned again toward the desert, riding at a steady pace and scanning the sand intently for anything unusual. They were less than a quarter of a mile from the old town when Curt pulled his horse up sharp and leaped from the saddle to bend down and scrutinize a tough creeper which had been pulled out of the sand. “Get down here, Helen. Here’s something the others have missed.” Helen dismounted and ran to Curt’s side. In his hands he held a tough section of the creeper and his eyes were fastened on a brown stain. “What is it?” demanded Helen. “Looks like someone got caught in this and scratched,” said Curt, trying to pass the remark off lightly. “You mean it might have been Janet?” “It might have been,” agreed the cowboy star. “Look back toward the village. This is in a direct line and although you may not have noticed it, we’ve been following footprints all of the way. Two came out and only one returned.” Helen looked at him, her eyes showing her fear. “Then someone in the company was responsible for Janet’s disappearance!” she gasped. “Right,” snapped Curt. “The first thing is to find Janet; then we’ll catch up with whoever was responsible.” “Hadn’t we better tell the others?” asked Helen. “They’re not used to tracking; I am.” He grinned. “Even if I am a movie cowboy most of the time, I know a few tricks about the range and the desert. Come on!” They remounted and Curt led the way, scanning the ground closely. Even Helen, as inexperienced as she was, could see the signs now. Someone had left deep prints in the sand. “He was either an awful big man or he was carrying someone,” said Curt. “One thing, he won’t be able to go far.” The trail led toward the hills back of the ghost town and it was evident that the man they were trailing had rested frequently. Curt saw another of those brown stains, but he made sure that Helen did not see it for there was no use in increasing her fears. The trail led on, perhaps half a mile altogether, and ended suddenly in a tiny depression where the sand was smooth and hard. Curt dismounted and made a minute survey of the bowl. The trail came in all right, but there were no tracks going out. In the center were two marks, about four inches wide and 12 or 14 feet long, but that was all. Beside one of these was a tiny smudge of black and Curt got down on his hands and knees and sniffed keenly. “What is it?” asked Helen. Curt shook his head. “Can’t tell yet and there’s no use in guessing.” He mopped his forehead with a large bandana and scanned the heavens. The sun was blazing down and shortly the temperature in the little bowl they were in would be stifling. “We’d better get out of here,” he said. “But Janet? Where can she be? We’ve followed the trail but it’s simply vanished.” The questions tumbled from Helen’s lips. “I wish I could answer them all,” said Curt. “Maybe I can later.” They rode back to the ghost town at a brisk trot and Curt cornered Henry Thorne and told him of their discovery. Then he led a searching party of half a dozen into the hills back of the town while the other members of the company assembled for the day’s work under the boiling sun. Helen attempted to join the searching party, but was told it was no place for a girl so she went with the company out into the desert where the airport had been laid out and a dummy hangar erected. Shooting went ahead on schedule until just before noon when someone shouted an alarm and they turned toward the ghost town. The remaining houses were rapidly being consumed by flames and before they could reach them there was no hope of saving anything, including a number of valuable cameras, sound equipment and hundreds of dollars worth of costumes. Henry Thorne fairly blazed for he knew now that a deliberate effort was being made to stop the production of “Kings of the Air.” But before they had recovered from that disaster, another befell with startling swiftness. There was a dull boom from the valley and they turned to see a fast, black plane swinging over the set on the desert. A cloud of dust was rising near the hangar and as they watched, another explosion echoed in their ears. “That guy’s bombing the set!” yelled a cameraman, leaping into a car. The third bomb was a direct hit and the hangar collapsed. Over to the right were half a dozen planes which were being used in the picture and the unknown flyer turned his attention toward these. “If he blows them up, we can figure a hundred thousand dollar loss right there,” groaned Helen’s father. But the unknown flyer had reckoned without the resourcefulness of Curt Newsom. The lanky cowboy, riding hard by in the hills, had heard the first explosion and the roar of an airplane motor. They saw him flash out into the desert at a mad gallop. “He’s crazy; someone stop him!” cried Henry Thorne, but there was no one near enough to reach Curt. Helen saw him drag a rifle from the scabbard on his saddle. The flyer was apparently disdainful of the lone rider for he dropped another bomb. It missed the planes by only the narrowest of margins and the pilot of the black ship swung around for another try. He swooped toward Curt and waved jeeringly as Curt leaped from the saddle. They were too far away to hear the report of the rifle but they could see the little puffs of smoke from the muzzle. Suddenly the black plane heeled sharply, its motor sputtering. The pilot shot over the side, his chute billowing out and Curt, jumping back into the saddle, rode like mad toward the hills. The plane gyrated uncertainly, then dove toward the ground. It struck with a tremendous explosion as the bombs still aboard let go. Helen saw Curt whirl back into the valley and sweep down on the flyer, who had landed in a tangle of cord and silk from the parachute. All thought of resistance was gone from the flyer’s mind and the cowboy captured him easily. By the time the others arrived, Curt had the situation well in hand. “I think a confession out of this guy will solve our troubles,” said the cowboy star as Henry Thorne stared at the flyer. “What have you got to say for yourself. Who employed you?” demanded the director. The flyer was sullen. “I’m not talking. I want an attorney.” Curt rocked back and forth on his heels. “So you won’t talk?” He grinned, but it was a mirthless grin that struck terror to those who watched. Curt was living in real life the rÔle he had played so many times on the screen. With a quick jerk his lariat was free from the saddle and before the flyer knew it, he was in the coils of the rope and his feet had been jerked out from under him. Curt swung into the saddle, twisted the rope around the saddle horn and looked down on the helpless man. “Going to talk?” The captive shook his head. Curt spoke to his horse and the magnificent sorrel moved ahead slowly, dragging the captive after him. After bouncing over the desert floor for a rod, the flyer cried for mercy. “I’ll talk; I’ll talk. Get this rope off quick.” “And you’ll tell us what you did with that girl last night and where we can find her?” The captive nodded emphatically and Curt shook the rope loose. |
|
