CHAPTER SEVEN
Tim fought the controls as the mail plane careened down the clearing inthe dim light of the blazing pine torches. He heard, faintly, theencouraging shouts of Boots and Jim as they cheered for a successfultakeoff.
The odds were terrific. The clearing was barely long enough for atakeoff with the best of conditions. The ground was uneven and the snowmaterially checked his speed. Tim waited until the end of the clearingloomed. Then he pulled back on the stick and jerked the plane off theground. They zoomed into the night sky and Tim breathed easier, but onlyfor a second. The motor missed and he felt the loss of flying speed. Heinstantly switched to the other magneto and the motor resumed itsrhythmic firing. It was just in time for the plane had droppeddangerously low.
Tim circled over the clearing, got his directions, and then headed in adirect airline for Atkinson. The mail plane hurtled through the night atone hundred thirty miles an hour, its maximum speed, and Tim pushed itevery mile of the way.
It was hard work piloting the mail for every muscle and bone in his bodycried with fatigue. The long hours in the air, and the struggle up anddown the mountain had sapped his energy. In spite of the cold, he foundit hard to keep awake.
The motor droned steadily and its song lulled Tim into a dangerous stateof lassitude. His eyes grew heavy and once or twice he caught himselfdozing.
The flying reporter realized fully the danger of going to sleep at thecontrols and used every power at his command to ward off the sleepiness.He beat his arms against his body, stamped his feet on the floor of thecockpit and even stood up so that the icy blast from the propeller beatagainst his cheeks. The remedies would be effective for four or fiveminutes. Then he would feel himself slipping again. Each time it washarder to arouse himself to the task of moving his arms and legs, ofstanding up and facing the chilling slipstream.
They were not more than twenty-five miles from Atkinson when Tim's eyesfinally closed and his head fell forward. His hands, which had grippedthe stick in desperate determination, relaxed and the mail ship cruisedon with its pilot asleep in the cockpit.
For three or four minutes all went well. The mail plane, a well riggedcraft, maintained an even keel and Hank Cummins and Curly, crouched inthe mail compartment with the injured Lewis, had no intimation that Timwas not at his post of duty.
Then a vagrant night wind swept out of the north and caught the plane ata quartering angle. The stick waggled impatiently as though signallingTim that his attention was needed. Finding no master hand to control it,the stick gave up the job and surrendered to the wind.
The mail veered off to the south, went into a tight bank, and ended upin a screaming nose dive.
The wires shrieked as the air speed increased and the motor added itscrescendo to the din.
The plane had dropped one thousand feet and was less than nine hundredfeet above the ground when the terrific noise penetrated Tim'ssub-conscious mind.
When he opened his eyes he knew they were in a power dive, heading forthe earth at nearly two hundred miles an hour. Without glancing at thealtimeter Tim seized the stick and attempted to bring the plane out ofits dive.
The motor pulsated with new power and gradually, carefully he broughtthe nose up. When he felt that the wings would not snap off under thetremendous strain, he levelled off.
Tim looked below. Not a hundred feet away he could see the outline ofobjects on the ground. Another second or two of sleep and they would allhave been wiped out in a crash.
He wiped the cold perspiration from his brow, relaxed just a bit, andset a new course for Atkinson.
Ten minutes later he could see the lights of the city reflected in thesky and in another five minutes he was circling down to a landing on themunicipal field.
The great Sperry floodlight, used when the air mail planes were landingor taking off, bathed the field in its blue-white brilliance. It was aslight as day and Tim set the heavy ship down as lightly as a feather. Hetaxied up to the administration building and an ambulance, waiting nearthe gate, backed down toward his plane.
"They telephoned from the Circle Four that you had found Lewis and hisship," shouted Carl Hunter as he hurried up to the plane.
"Found him on top of a mountain," replied Tim. "He's some smashed upinside but I think he'll pull through. The mail is still in the planebut two of the boys from the Circle Four are watching it and they'llstart down with it tomorrow."
The field manager took charge of the situation and they lifted theinjured flyer down from the mail cockpit. Lewis was unconscious againbut was breathing deeply and freely. The young surgeon with theambulance gave him a cursory examination.
"He'll pull through all right," was his verdict as he swung into theambulance and it started its dash for the hospital in the city.
Tim was so tired and chilled that he had to be helped from the cockpit.His legs, aching from the cold and the arduous exertion of the day,simply folded up under him.
Hank Cummins grinned at him.
"I don't feel much better myself," he admitted. "And gosh, what anappetite climbing a mountain gives a fellow. Let's eat."
Supported by the ranchman on one side and the field manager on theother, Tim made his way to the administration building.
"Ralph must have come in early since he didn't wait for me," said Tim asthey entered the manager's office.
Hunter did not answer immediately and Tim turned toward him with anxiouseyes.
"What's the matter, Carl?" he demanded. "Isn't Ralph in; haven't youheard from him?"
"We haven't had any news," admitted the field manager, "but you knowRalph well enough to realize that he can take care of himself in almostany kind of an emergency."
Tim knew that Ralph was capable and resourceful but he had also had avivid demonstration of the dangers of flying in the Great Smokies.
"I've got to start out and hunt for him," he cried. "Have the boys getthe plane ready to go."
"You'll do nothing of the kind," snorted Hunter. "You're in no shape tofly. Look at your eyes. You'd be sound asleep in ten minutes and thenwe'd have to start looking for you. No sir! You stay right here, putsome warm food inside and then roll in. The mail planes are goingthrough tonight on schedule and they've all been instructed to look forsome sign of a campfire in the mountains. Ralph may have found thewrecked westbound, landed, and be unable to get back into the airagain."
There was sound advice in the field manager's words and Tim realizedthat it would be folly for him to attempt to fly again that night.
A waiter from the restaurant at the other end of the administrationbuilding brought in a tray of steaming hot food and Tim, Hank Cummins,Curly, and Hunter sat down for a midnight lunch.
"There's just one thing I'd like to know," said the ranchman. "What inthunder were you trying to do when you started for the ground all of asudden. I was scared half to death and Curly was shouting his prayers."
"To tell the truth I went to sleep," confessed Tim. "When I woke up wewere in a power dive and not very far from the ground. I was scaredstiff but Lady Luck was with us and the wings stayed on when I pulledthe plane out of the dive. Otherwise, we might not be having hot soupright now. And boy, does this soup hit the spot!"
They had nearly finished their lunch when the door opened and themanaging editor of the _News_ hurried in.
"They phoned me you were coming in a few minutes ago," he told Tim. "Howare you? Where's Ralph? Is Lewis all right?"
The flying reporter answered the managing editor's questions as rapidlyas possible and then related the events of the day. He introduced themanaging editor to Hank Cummins and Curly and told of the important partthe Circle Four men had taken in the rescue of the injured pilot.
"That's great work, Tim, great," exclaimed the managing editor. "IfRalph isn't reported by morning you'll want to start out again. Howabout writing the story for the _News_ before you turn in?"
The lunch and opportunity to relax had restored part of Tim's strengthand he
was eager to write the story of the day's happenings. It was allfresh and vivid in his mind. If he went to sleep and tried to write thestory in the morning part of the dashing action, the brilliant color ofthe words, would be lost. He agreed to the managing editor's suggestionand sat down at the typewriter in the field manager's office.
With a handful of paper on the desk beside him, he started his story.The other men in the room continued their conversation but they might aswell have been in another world as far as Tim was concerned. He wasreliving the events of the day, transferring the story of what hadhappened in the clouds into words and sentences that would thrill thereaders of the _News_ the next day.
Page after page of copy fell from the machine as Tim's fingers hammeredat the keys. The managing editor unobtrusively picked them up and readthem with increasing eagerness.
In glowing words Tim painted the story of the entire events of the dayfrom the sudden onslaught of the blizzard to the final landing of hisplane on the home field. It was a story high in human interest--a storyevery subscriber of the _News_ would read and remember.
When Tim had completed the last sentence, he turned to the managingeditor.
"I'm all in," he admitted, "And if Carl will lend me a cot in thepilot's room I'm going to roll in."
"You deserve a week of sleep," said the managing editor, as he finishedreading the story.
"This is one of the best yarns you've ever written," he addedenthusiastically. "Now when Ralph gets in and writes his story--"
Carson didn't finish. He saw the look of anxiety that his words broughtto Tim's tired, white face and he added quickly.
"You head for bed and we'll let you know just as soon as we hear fromRalph."
Tim nodded dully, almost hopelessly, and stumbled into the pilot's roomwhere he threw himself on a cot. He was asleep before he had time todraw up the blankets.
Half an hour later Tim was roused from his deep slumber by someoneshaking his shoulders. Faintly he heard words.
"The pilot on the westbound tonight saw a campfire in the timber alongone of the lower mountains. It must be Ralph. We'll start the firstthing in the morning."