The Sky Trail

  CHAPTER SIX

  The heavy mail plane was much different from the _Good News_ and Timspent the first five minutes in the air getting used to the controls andthe feel of the ship. The air speed indicator showed one hundred tenmiles an hour with a quartering wind.

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

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

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

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

  "Any news?" he asked.

  "Not a word," replied the field manager. "Looks like whatever rescuingis done today will have to be handled by you and Ralph. We won't haveextra 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 signaledthat he was going to start his search for Mitchell, who had been on thewestbound ship the night before.

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

  According to all the information available, Lewis should have been onthe east side of the divide. Five minutes before the blizzard struck hehad 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 andprecipices of the mountains. He shoved the mail plane up and up until hewas almost to the divide before he started his detailed search for themissing plane and pilot.

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

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

  Half an hour later he switched on the radiophone and informed the fieldmanager that he was temporarily abandoning his search. Hunter directedTim to the nearest ranch where fuel would be available and the flyingreporter snapped off the radiophone and glided down off the divide.

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

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

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

  Tim gunned the motor, banked sharply, and fishtailed down. The mailplane landed hard, bounced on a low ridge, threatened to dig its noseinto a drift, and finally straightened out, coming to a standstill notmore than ten feet from a barbed wire fence.

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

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

  "You're off the trail, Big Boy," said the first cowboy to reach theplane.

  "I'm all right," replied Tim, "But I've been out all morning looking forone 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 theother was eastbound. They were last heard from just before the blizzardclosed down."

  "Gosh," said the first cowboy, "The Great Smokies are a tough bunch ofhills for anyone to be caught in a storm."

  "We've got two planes out searching for them," explained Tim. "I ran lowon gas and thought maybe you fellows would have some at the ranch youcould 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 mailplane. He had overheard Tim's request and stepped up to the plane tointroduce himself.

  "I'm Hank Cummins, owner of the Circle Four Ranch," he said. "You'rewelcome to all the gasoline you need and anything else we can do to helpyou."

  Tim introduced himself and found that the owner of the Circle Four andall 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 acowboy.

  Tim grinned and nodded.

  The owner of the ranch started giving orders and the cowboys hurriedaway to fill cans with gasoline and replenish the nearly empty fueltanks of the mail plane.

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

  In five minutes the cowboys were back with the heavy cans of gasolineand Tim directed their efforts. A short time later and the mail planewas 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 foodinside and you'll be a lot more alert. Come on up to the house and sitdown 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 Timnew courage and enthusiasm to resume his gruelling search.

  When the flying reporter returned to the meadow he found that thecowboys had appointed themselves a ground crew and had turned the mailplane around. Several of them, armed with shovels, were busy clearing apath 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 tocover the bill for the gasoline.

  "That's all right," laughed the rancher. "We're glad to be able to helpyou."

  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 ranfor shelter before the driving white particles.

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

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

  Noon found Tim deep in the fastnesses of the mountains, searchingobscure pockets and canyons, then roaring along thinly forested slopeswhere 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 visibilitywas good. The air was a little warmer but Tim was forced to beat hisarms against his body to keep them from stiffening in the cold.

  The supply of gasoline he had obtai
ned at the ranch was getting low whenhe knew that he was near the end of the search. There was just enough toexplore a distant tier of peaks that swung off to his right. Not muchchance of the mail being that far off the regular airway but he didn'tdare let any possibility escape.

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

  The flying reporter was about to abandon his search when something onthe crest of a jagged ridge drew his attention. He swung the mail shipnearer and circled down for a closer view. It looked--it looked--yes, itwas, 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 eastboundmail!

  Was there a chance that the pilot had survived the crash? The questionraced through Tim's mind and he sent the air mail plane hurtlingdownward.

  He levelled off two feet above the peak which had impaled the eastboundmail and circled carefully. He made two complete swings and there was nosign of life in the wrecked plane.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  It was just after three o'clock when Tim roared over the Circle Fourranch house and set the mail plane down in the pasture with littleceremony. By the time he had taxied back to the side of the fieldnearest the ranch buildings Cummins and his cowboys were climbing thefence.

  "I've found the eastbound plane and pilot," shouted Tim, "and I needmore gas and a couple of men to fly back with me and help get the pilotout. He appears hurt and is caught in the wreckage."

  Hank Cummins roared orders with great gusto and the cowboys hurried tocarry 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 tocarry Lewis down. He weighs something over two hundred pounds and thatwon't be any picnic if he can't walk."

  "I'll say you need two men then," said Cummins. "Looks to me likethere's room for three or four in that mail hole there."

  "There is room enough," explained Tim, "but remember we'll have to counton bringing Lewis back with us."

  "We could leave a couple of the boys on the mountain," said theranchman. "Give them plenty of blankets and we can send after themtomorrow. 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 upto the side of the plane.

  "Pile in boys," urged Tim. "You'll have to lay down in the mailcompartment and you won't get a chance to see very much scenery if youput the top down."

  "Leave her up," cried Curly, "I've always wanted to see how thisdog-goned country looked from the air."

  "You're the doctor," laughed Tim. "Don't blame me if you get pretty coldon the flight to the mountains."

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

  In a little more than half an hour Tim circled over the only levelground on the side of the mountain. There was a long, narrow gash thatappeared smooth enough for a landing and he set the mail ship downcautiously. The first time he overshot the mark and had to try again. Onthe second attempt he made a perfect three point and killed his speedquickly.

  Tim shut off the motor and climbed out of his cockpit. The cowboystumbled down from the mail compartment while Cummins tossed theblankets, 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 ofescape from the mountains.

  After making sure that the plane was safe, they started the long climbup the mountain. At times they moved rapidly, especially where the windhad swept the snow off the rocks. But again their progress washeart-breaking, deep drifts forcing them to fight for every foot ofheadway.

  Up and up they climbed, stopping only occasionally to rest. The cowboyswere in good physical condition and Tim was glad that he kept himself inshape. The strenuous climb might have killed a man who was not sound inheart 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'llstay on the ground and chase the dogies. Think of smashing up in a placelike this."

  "It is pretty wild," admitted Tim, "but the boys don't crack up veryoften."

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

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

  The rescue party hurried down the steep slope. Tim, in the lead, was thefirst 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 hadseen 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 theycame to the pilot's cockpit. An arm through a piece of canvas was thefirst indication that Lewis was still in the plane.

  Then they found him! He was wedged into the cockpit. His eyes wereclosed and he was breathing slowly. His face was white in the gatheringdusk.

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

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

  "He'll probably be on the shelf a few months," he said when he hadcompleted 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 hardcrack on the head that might be a slight fracture, and exposure, ofwhich the exposure is about as bad as any."

  The cowboys built a roaring fire that cast eerie shadows on the wreckageof the mail and then proceeded to loosen the injured flyer's clothes.Lewis' body was thoroughly warmed and the circulation restored to hisarms 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. Thehours had been spent in cutting a plentiful supply of pine knots whichwould serve as torches and in fashioning a stretcher on which to carrythe injured flyer.

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

  The mail flyer was still unconscious when they placed him on themakeshift stretcher but he was made comfortable with an abundance ofblankets.

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

  The stretcher was heavy and bundlesome and even the short distance tothe crest of the mountain was a cruel struggle. They were almostexhausted 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 fairprogress. When their supply of pine pieces ran low they were forced tocall a halt while Boots and Jim hunted up a clump of pines and secured anew supply.

  The trip down the mountains required three hours and it was eleveno'clock when they finally staggered into the clearing that sheltered thewaiting 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 voicelittle more than a whisper.

  "You crashed in the storm," replied Tim. "We found you in the GreatSmokies and are getting ready to take you back to Atkinson. How do youfeel?"

  "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 thenarrow clearing. Then they lifted Lewis into the mail compartment andonto 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. "Twoof the boys will have to stay here and I'll bring the two who go with meback to the ranch in the morning."

  "That's all right with us," agreed Cummins. "Curly and I will make thetrip with you and Boots and Jim can stay here tonight. In the morningthey can go back and bring down the mail. The boys from the ranch willmeet them with horses sometime in the forenoon."

  Boots and Jim took armsful of the pine fagots and hurried down theclearing. They placed flaming torches to light to take off and Timstarted the motor while Cummins and Curly crawled into the mailcompartment to look after Lewis.

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