Chapter 3

Broughton started to walk toward the lower edge of the
clearing. He had an idea that he wanted to verify by pacing off the
distance and examining the rim of trees on the lower end.

Graves was talking casually to the fat man, describing the flight, when
a loud exclamation and a sudden burst of conversation caused him to
turn. The machine guns had been noted for the first time.

“You fly well armed,” said the tall, stooping Jew nastily. Every one
else was silent, awaiting Graves’ reply.

“The ship is from Langham Field, where all the planes are equipped for
bombing and other tests against battle-ships,” was the easy reply.

Hinkley, who had been wondering whether Graves would think of that
excuse, smiled admiringly.

“Doesn’t miss many bets,” he told himself. The fat man’s careful
geniality was suddenly gone. While the knot of men who were now
clustered close to the rear cockpit of the ship engaged in further
low-voiced conversation his little eyes roved from nose to tail of the
ship, coming back to rest on Graves’ untroubled face.

The man who had gone to the cabin came back over the hill. Another man
was with him--a powerfully built fellow who towered over his companion.
Every one became suddenly silent, as they came nearer. Hinkley knew
instinctively that this was Hayden.

* * * * *

His deeply lined, somewhat fleshy countenance could have served as a
model for the face of a fallen angel. The wide, cruel mouth, high
forehead and square jaw all indicated strength, and yet suffering and
dissipation were graven there. His eyes, as he approached the ship, were
in direct contrast to the rest of his face. They were large and
bright--the eyes of a dreamer, and they almost succeeded in
counteracting the cruel force of his face. Hinkley had a glimpse of the
man’s magnetism in those eyes.

“How do you do, colonel?” he said quietly.

His voice was deep and rich. He removed the slouch hat he wore,
revealing thick black hair sprinkled with gray. It strengthened the
impression that he had Slav blood in him, for his complexion was dark
and his eyes liquid black.

“We dropped in on you unwillingly, but we are fortunate to find people
here. My name is Graves.”

“I am glad to know you.”

He did not offer his hand, Hinkley noted. He stood quietly, looking at
the ship. Broughton came back at this juncture, his eyes taking in the
massive figure of the newcomer with slow appraisal.

There is an unconscious respect and curiosity engendered in even the
most unemotional person by any man who is noted--or notorious. A great
criminal, a great artist, a champion chess-player, the survivor of a
widely heralded accident--anything unusual draws its meed of attention.
Hayden, without the benefit of his reputation, was an arresting man.
With it, he repaid study.

“I am very sorry, colonel, but we have but little food here--scarcely
enough for our party. I will have some one guide you down to Elm Hill,
where you will be more comfortable,” Hayden said at length.

“We have a little food in the ship. It’s getting late, and we’ll just
sleep out here under the wings,” returned Graves quietly.

Suddenly a devil peered forth from Hayden’s eyes. The softness was gone,
and savagery was there instead.

Graves looked into that queerly demoniac face without emotion.
Apparently he did not feel the sudden tenseness that had every one in
its grip. All felt the battle of wills going on there--that there was
something underneath which did not appear on the surface.

“I think I’ll turn the ship around and head it into the wind,” came
Broughton’s quiet voice.

It broke the tension. Graves turned to Broughton and Hinkley.

“I think it would be best. We’ll give you a hand on the wing--it’s a
narrow place to turn in,” he remarked casually.

Hinkley primed both motors from underneath, and Broughton got into the
cockpit. As soon as the motors were running Hinkley and Graves set
themselves against the left wing. With the right motor full on they
succeeded in turning the ship until it was headed down the slope,
pointing toward one corner.

“If you don’t turn ’em into the wind the controls are liable to get
flapping,” Hinkley explained to all and sundry. “With a smaller ship,
wind sometimes turns ’em over, getting under the wing, too.”

Larry was wondering whether Broughton was planning to try a take-off. It
looked like suicide to him, but Broughton was the doctor, Hinkley
shrugged his shoulders at his thoughts, and then looked goodnaturedly at
the lowering faces about him. He was enjoying himself.

Without another word Hayden walked toward the cabin. The others followed
slowly.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” announced the fat man. “If there’s anything
you need----”

“Nothing, thank you,” returned Graves.

“We are as welcome as rain at a picnic,” remarked Hinkley after the man
had got out of earshot.

“Just about,” agreed Graves as Broughton returned. “To tell you the
truth, I expected that we would get away with things a lot better than
we seem to be doing. Those three well dressed men are undoubtedly some
of the higher-ups in Hayden’s organization--the man that went after him
is Somers. He is the only one I know. Somers served ten years in jail
for killing a man when he was a radical leader. It was a strike affair.
His specialty used to be salted mines and that sort of stuff--he’s a
rough customer who can take care of himself. I’m surprized to see him
all dressed up out here--if he’s working the city end of Hayden’s scheme
he’s rather out of his element. We believe he’s the actual leader on the
robberies themselves. That little Jew, Meyer, is the only other man
known to me personally. He’s a New York gangster--good with a gun.”

“How do things look to you?” inquired Broughton.

“The whole bunch is too ---- suspicious,”

Graves returned unemotionally. “Part of this gang are simply down here
for a visit, I imagine, to consult with Hayden. He isn’t taking a chance
on getting within miles of a big city policeman. I imagine that most of
the men who do the actual robbing are here, too, hiding out until the
next one is pulled. Probably the prosperous-looking men are the birds
who help get rid of the securities Hayden gets hold of.”

There was silence for a moment. Graves paced up and down slowly, his
head bent in thought.

“I’m going up to the cabin on the excuse of getting some water to see
what I can see. We’ve got to work fast, I can see that. Hayden is
audacious and brilliant, and suspicion is enough for this gang to work
on.”

“The old boy seems to amount to something, all right,” was Hinkley’s
tribute.

“He is a wonderful man. If he did not have that perverted twist in him,
he might be almost anything. I would suggest that one of you fool around
with this supposedly missing motor, and the other one walk around and
find out as much as possible about the guard system. We’ve got to be
planning how we are going to get out of here. If you can do it without
suspicion, you might see what they have along that lane there.”

* * * * *

Graves started for the cabin as he finished speaking. Hinkley strolled
carelessly over toward the lane which led away from the cabin into the
woods. Broughton climbed up on the motor with a wrench in his hand and
commenced tinkering with the valves.

The cabin door was open, and Graves could hear a conversation in which
many low-pitched voices took part. He walked in calmly. All conversation
ceased as he entered.

“Could we borrow a pail of some kind and get some drinking water?” he
asked, taking in his surroundings with a single lightning-like look
around.

There were eight bunks, built double-decker, against the four walls of
the cabin. Each was occupied now by a cigaret-smoking man. Hayden stood
in a doorway which apparently led into a small lean-to at the rear.
Somers was sitting on a rude stool. There was one small table, littered
with candle grease and cigaret butts. There was only one window, close
to the ceiling. A sort of half-darkness made it difficult to make out
the features of the men lying on the bunks.

He waited fully a half minute before receiving an answer. Then the fat
man got to his feet.

“I’ll get you one,” he said.

He had darted a quick look at Hayden, Graves noticed, before saying
anything.

He saw nothing but suspicion in the faces of the men about him. He
surmised that few of them lived there, but were there for a meeting with
their chief. Perhaps that might account for their attitude of extreme
suspicion, which did not seem justified under the circumstances. Then
there was always the possibility that some one of them might know him.

“How long do you think it will be before you get the plane out,
Colonel?”

It was Hayden’s deep, rich voice.

“Several days, I imagine,” returned Graves, watching his man narrowly.

“I should think that unless your headquarters were notified where you
were----”

It was a half question.

“We will wire from Elm Hill tomorrow. If we do not, they will have forty
planes out looking for us,” Graves explained.

He caught several meaning looks passing between various of the men at
his last statement.

“I should think it would be a very difficult job to locate a plane that
was really wrecked in these hills. Of course in your case you’re in a
clearing and it would be easy.”

Hayden’s voice was smooth and his words almost pleasant, but there was
nothing in his eyes now to give the lie to his face. He was the
personification of power and ruthlessness.

Graves’ sixth sense, developed by years of contact with the world of
crime and intrigue, warned him now. His mind probed behind Hayden’s
apparently casual words, and what the government man thought he found
made him look at Hayden with new amazement. He thought back over the
things he knew of the man before him.

For years he had been a thorn in the side of enforcers of the law all
over Europe and America. A dozen times big coups--jewel robberies, bank
robberies, huge swindling schemes--had been laid at his door, but never
yet had he been caught dead to rights because of his genius for
organization and leadership. There was a South American revolution which
star chamber gossip of the secret service said that Hayden had
conceived, promoted, and finally cleared a hundred thousand dollars on.
When supposedly he had left the country, police and secret service alike
had drawn long breaths of relief.

There was bigness and sweep about Hayden, and Graves knew that what he
suspected of the man’s plans concerning himself and the two flyers was
by no means too audacious for Hayden to contemplate. He would order it
with no compunction, and it would be a mere trifle for those men lying
around the room to execute.

These thoughts raced through his head as he relighted his cigar.

“Traveling by plane is queer business,” he remarked casually as he threw
the match out the door. “We often have trouble with people, strange as
it may seem. Moonshiners through this state, Tennessee and Kentucky
always think we’re after them if we have a forced landing anywhere near
by. Miners and hill-billys and their sort always figure army men and an
airplane are there for some purpose. Consequently we always go on a trip
well prepared with food, and heavily armed.”

He watched the effect of his words on his listeners. He was
disappointed. His explanation of the artillery the Martin carried,
besides what he had said about the ship being from Langham Field,
apparently had no effect in lightening the heavy suspicion that he could
feel in the very air about him.

“Well, if you’ll be good enough to give me the pail and show me where
the water is I’ll go back to the food,” he said.

The fat man led him outside and around the corner to a small tent which
sheltered a stove. A plank table with benches was beside it.

A young Italian who appeared to be the cook gave them a pail.

“The spring is right down the path. You can’t miss it,” said the guide.

His small eyes did not meet Graves’ regard for more than a second.

The government man got the water and went back to the Martin. He found
Hinkley already there.

“Find out anything?” he asked as he set down the pail.

“There’s a tent and three men on the top of a steep cliff right above
the road. They all seem to be foreigners. And you ought to see the cliff
on the lower side of the road. Anybody that stepped off that would have
time enough to say his prayers and make a will before he hit bottom.
Those three men could hold that road against an army if they had a
machine-gun. I came near getting shot myself. They said they were
camping.”

“It sure looks like a musical comedy war,” remarked Broughton, sitting
cross-legged on the motor.

“There may not be so much comic opera stuff about it, at that,” stated
Graves, removing the cigar from his mouth. “It’s bad.”

He told them briefly of his experience, and then went on:

“The size of the matter is, gentlemen, that those men are up to big
things. They’re so big and Hayden is in such a predicament that in my
opinion he will take no chances. It was only the luck of having an
operative over here who happened to be very familiar with Hayden that
caused us to know he was here. In view of the questions he asked me
about the difficulty of finding a wrecked plane in these mountains, plus
what he is, I believe he plans to kill us, burn the plane, and then bury
the motors or something. I expect that if I am right it will happen
tonight.”

His words were as calm and precise as though he were discussing the
weather. He replaced the cigar in his mouth and puffed it slowly.

“Somehow or other I can’t believe they would go that far on suspicion,”
said Hinkley. “They----”

“Are playing for big stakes, lieutenant,” Graves cut in. “And you cannot
figure them as normal. Somers has killed men--he was in jail ten years.
Hayden would sanction anything necessary for the success of his project.
What are our three lives to them, compared to the prizes they are
playing for, or the results of their being run down?”

“Lots of people will have seen our ship passing over,” suggested
Broughton. “They may figure that the army will just say another wreck
and let it go, but an investigation might be embarrassing.”

“They could kill us in such a way that it would look like a wreck,” said
Graves. Burn our bodies with the plane, or something like that;”

Both airmen nodded.

“Well, what are you going to do about it?” Hinkley inquired.

“If you’ll pardon me, Mr. Graves, I have a scheme that might work,”
announced Broughton. “It’s no better than a fifty-fifty shot, but I
believe that you’re right, the more I think of it, and in that case I
believe our chances of ever getting Hayden and getting out of here are
about as good as the old snowball in ----. I’ve got a crazy idea we
could take off here.”

Hinkley was not greatly surprized, but Graves was.

“You really think so?” he inquired with the nearest approach to
eagerness that the flyers had ever seen him show.

Broughton nodded.

“On account of the slope, only half a load of gas and oil now, and the
fact that even if we stall completely getting over those trees that the
mountainside is so steep we can nose down and get up speed. What do you
think, Larry?”

“Just about fifty-fifty,” was Hinkley’s reply. “Of course I don’t know a
great deal about Martin bombers--I’m a pursuit man and Jim here is the
big-ship expert. It’ll be a hair-raiser, with everything to lose and
pretty nearly everything to gain. Inasmuch as these yeggs are so
suspicious, I don’t believe we’d have a Chinaman’s chance to get Hayden
and get out of here----”

“Except by strategy they won’t understand,” Broughton cut in. “You see,
Mr. Graves, I figure it this way. If you tell them we’re going, they’ll
lose some of their suspicion. Probably half the reason for killing us
would be to prevent our telling anybody about their funny rendezvous up
here, plus the plausible reason for our death if anybody gets nosing
around. The ship gives them that----”

“And any of them who are afraid of the police through their past
reputations could disappear while some unknown tells the army all about
the wreck,” Graves suggested.

“Exactly,” agreed Broughton. “They’ll lose their suspicion, and will
think that we see nothing unusual in this place. When the motors start
they’ll all be out for the take-off. By some hook or crook we ought to
be able to get Hayden near enough the ship and a little away from the
others so that we can knock him on the head, chuck him in the back
cockpit, and give the old ship the gun.”

“If they’re all too near, one of us can get in the back, fiddle with the
machine gun, and then suddenly announce that we’ll mow down the crowd
unless Hayden gives himself up,” said Hinkley amiably.

* * * * *

Graves was almost excited at the hopeful vista suggested by the flyers.
His pace was a little faster than usual as he covered a path twenty feet
long over and over again. A fresh, unlighted cigar was clamped in the
extreme corner of his well-chiseled mouth.

“Of course I am in your hands as far as flying is concerned,” he said as
though talking to himself. “I don’t know how many of them will be armed,
but the chances are that in the excitement the shooting will not be very
accurate.”

Every one was silent for a moment. Then Broughton made another
suggestion.

“They will be back of us, sir, and if we can get in the front cockpit
fast the bomb compartment, which is as high as our heads, will protect
us from shots while we are taking off. They’ll ricochet off the steel
runway, I believe, at the angle of fire they’ll shoot at. Besides,
they’ll hold their fire at first for fear of hitting Hayden.”

Graves threw his untasted cigar away.

“We’ll do it,” he said calmly. “There are men with field-glasses over on
that mountain there keeping watch. If we fail, all hope of getting
Hayden alive and without publicity will be gone, but no man up here will
get out. All the routes are blocked, if they only knew it. It will mean
a lot of men killed capturing this party, and our swoop on Hayden’s gang
all over the country will be incomplete, but we’ll have done our best.”

“Let’s get the motor started then, right away,” said Broughton. “It’s
getting dark already.”

The western sky was red as fire still, but the sun itself had dipped
behind the mountains and the valleys were filling with purple shadow.

The motors were started without trouble. The roar of them brought every
one out of the shack. Luck was with the flyers, for only three men came
close to the ship--Hayden, Somers, and little Meyer. All the rest of the
men stayed near the shack, fifty yards away from the Martin. The
machine-gun holdup appeared to be unnecessary. The three men stopped
about ten yards away.

Graves walked up to them.

“We have the ship fixed, and have decided to try a take-off,” he said.

The comfort this brought to the three agitators was obvious. Graves
looked around and beckoned to Hinkley, who strolled up casually.
Broughton was idling the motors, now, and preparing to climb out.

Graves went a few steps to meet the flyer.

“Get close to Meyer and disarm him when I give the signal. Tell
Broughton to do the same to Somers--knock him on the head if necessary.
I’ll get Hayden, and then the three of us can heave him in the back
cockpit and get in before that gang up there can get their guns. I don’t
believe any of them carry revolvers.”

Hinkley grinned delightedly.

“Fast work, partner,” he breathed.

The three were standing quietly, talking in low tones, when Hinkley and
Broughton came up.

“Well, good-by,” said Graves, extending his hand to Hayden. Broughton
and Hinkley watched him closely.

His fist shot up like a flash of light, carrying all his weight with it.
The big man fell like an ox. At the same time the two flyers leaped in,
revolvers in hand, and crashed the butts down on the heads of their
respective victims. It was such a complete surprize that the ruse was
funny in its effectiveness.

Somers and Meyer were disarmed in a trice. Before the astonished
henchmen of Hayden had recovered from their surprize and covered half
the distance between the cabin and the ship the three government men had
heaved the unconscious Hayden into the rear cockpit and were scrambling
forward over the bomb compartment.

Without waiting for belts to be adjusted Broughton jammed on both
throttles. Bullets sang close to them; the gang had held their fire at
first for fear of hitting Hayden, and now the bomb compartment shielded
the flyers completely. Their heads did not show above it.

By the time the marksmen had realized this and had veered to go around
the wing the ship was in motion. For a few seconds two men wrenched at
the rudders in a mad effort to disable the plane, but the sturdy
controls held. Then the Martin was moving so fast that the men had to
let go.

For twenty-five yards Broughton ruddered the ship straight down the
slope. It was extremely steep there, and the heavy ship picked up speed
amazingly. Then Jim swung it slightly to the left, to get the benefit of
the extra yards that would give him.

The trees rushed nearer with terrible swiftness. There came a quivering
bounce, and then, with a feeling of infinite relief, he felt the ship
leave the ground. He pulled the wheel back as far as it would go.

The Martin made it. There was not an inch of margin, for the elevators
and rudders swished through the trees and the nose of the ship dropped
in a stall. For two hundred feet Broughton had all he could do to keep
it from dragging in the trees on that nearly sheer mountain side. Then
it picked up speed, and with both Libertys still running wide open
turned eastward through the thickening shadow, streams of fire from the
exhausts trailing behind like banners of triumph.

VI.

The peak they had left was a trifle higher than any of the others, so it
was unnecessary for Broughton to waste time getting altitude. The Martin
drove steadily eastward over the murky world below.

Probably no ship is ever so helpless as when flying over country like
that at night, but the successful culmination of their adventure was
such a tonic to the airmen that the chance of a forced landing seemed
only a minor thing, scarcely to be considered.

In a few minutes Graves turned and passed a note back to Hinkley. The
tall flyer read it with difficulty in the darkness, and then passed it
to Broughton, steadying the wheel to give the pilot an opportunity to
read it:

Although the ammunition and guns in the back are packed
where I do not believe Hayden can get at them, I believe it
would be wise for me to climb back there in order to take no
chances with him. He is desperate, and might try to take us
all to ---- with him.

It would be an easy matter for Graves to get from his cockpit into the
flyer’s compartment, and from there back to the rear cockpit. The roof
of the bomb compartment provided a four-foot runway which is not a
difficult matter for an experienced airman to negotiate. Nevertheless,
climbing around a ship under the best of conditions is no parlor sport.

It was a tribute to Graves’ nerve that Broughton looked at Hinkley and
then nodded at Graves. The secret agent promptly unbuckled his belt and
crawled beneath the instrument board into their cockpit.

With the aid of wire and struts he inched himself over the flyers’
heads, and started crawling along the runway. Broughton throttled as low
as he dared to kill speed. The air was smooth as glass, as it always is
at night, which made Graves’ attempt easier.

Finally Hinkley turned to Broughton and nodded with a wide grin.
Broughton relaxed from the strain of keeping the ship absolutely level,
and looked around. No one could be seen in the rear cockpit. Then
Graves’ head appeared, and the firm mouth was smiling beneath the big
goggles. He nodded cheerfully. Apparently everything was all right.
Hayden’s head had come into contact with something when they had heaved
him in, Broughton surmised, and he was probably as unconscious as a sack
of meal.

They were now a speck in the starry sky above the mountains. In every
direction nothing but the black voids of the valleys and the shadowed
sides of towering mountains met the eye. Both flyers had seen
awe-inspiring sights in the air, but there were few which could compare
with the panorama spread out below them now. There was mystery and
greatness there--widely scattered pin points of light from the
wilderness, with an occasional far-off cluster that represented a
town--all contributing to a grandeur and beauty which was more
impressive because less seen than suggested.

* * * * *

Suddenly Hinkley’s long fingers gripped Broughton’s arm. He pointed to
the right hand motor. For a moment Broughton could not fathom his
meaning. Then his heart sunk as he realized what had happened.

A tiny spray of water was spurting from the radiator. Perhaps one of the
bullets had hit it and weakened it, or more likely it was only a failure
in the material. In any event, it meant that within a few minutes all
the water would be gone, and even before that happened the motor would
be useless.

The pilot strove to pierce the gloom below to discover any sign of a
landing place. There was none. Parachute flares would do no good down
there--one can land in the trees blindly with as much chance for life as
in the daytime.

While Broughton was still trying to pick up some clearing, which would
show lighter than the woods, Hinkley loosened his belt. He leaned over
to yell into Broughton’s ear:

“I think I can hold it for a while!”

He threw his leg over the side of the cockpit, leaning far backward to
avoid the propeller which was whirling within inches of him. Finally he
decided not to risk it, and climbed back. He went back on the bomb
compartment and crawled down on the wing from there. Little by little he
made his way forward to the leading edge of the wing. Once again even
the throwing of an arm for a few inches would mean being mangled by the
propeller.

He held to the struts and made his way to the motor. The design of the
radiator helped his scheme. On a Martin it is a square contrivance set
up above the motor, and well toward the rear of it. On most planes the
radiator is in front of the motor, with the propeller turning two inches
in front of it.

Hinkley fought the wind viciously while he extracted a half dollar from
his pocket and wrapped it in his handkerchief. It took precious time to
accomplish it on his perilous perch, and all the while the water was
getting lower. Already Broughton had opened the motor shutters wide to
hold the temperature down.

Finally Hinkley placed the wrapped coin against the leak. He pressed
hard against it with his hand. He could feel the handkerchief soaking,
but he knew that the motor would last many precious minutes more because
he had reduced the leak by over half. He set himself as comfortably as
he could. One foot was less than an inch from the edge of the wing. His
right arm was crooked around a strut. His left held the temporary
barrier against the radiator. In this position he fought the propeller
blast.

The heat of the water made him change hands frequently. Once he nearly
fell into the propeller doing it, for both hands had to be free for a
second at one time in order that the coin be always pressed against the
leak.

Then he had to change fingers, for his thumbs were both scalded. One by
one he used the tip of each finger, and one by one they scalded. His
thin lips were set into a line that was like a livid cut in his face,
but the makeshift plug was always there. He did not even glance at the
ground six thousand feet below.

He wondered whether Broughton knew what
he was suffering, and would land at the first opportunity.

Broughton did, but for a half hour he could find no place. Then the
great ship cleared the last peak. Over beyond the foothills plowed
fields gleamed dully in contrast to the black spots of trees.

The left hand motor was eighty-five Centigrade, flying throttled to a
thousand revolutions and with the shutters wide open. It was difficult
to handle the ship with the right motor turning up so much more.
Broughton came to a decision. To take a chance was the only way.

He cut the right hand motor until it “revved” up a thousand, and started
a shallow dive. In a moment the Martin was diving through the gloom at a
hundred miles an hour. It was only three thousand when they cleared the
foothills. The country was still ragged, but it was level.

Broughton pulled his left parachute flare. A sense of ineffable relief
filled him as he saw a fiery ball drop earthward. Those flares didn’t
work as invariably as they might.

The eyes of the three airmen, stranded there in the darkness, followed
that ball of fire with unwinking eyes. Suddenly it burst, and a
brilliant flare swung downward on a small parachute. The earth was
lighted up fairly well in a circle of at least a mile’s radius.

Broughton cut his motors still further. He beckoned to Hinkley. Hinkley
knew the desperate need for haste--that flare would not last long and
the other one, hung to the right hand wing-tip, might not work. He
worked his way rapidly back to the cockpit, careless of his raw
fingertips as he grasped wires and struts to help him along. The flare
was within three hundred feet of the ground, and the Martin a thousand,
when he reached the seat and strapped his belt.

There was just one possible field. It was a cornfield, apparently, about
seventy-five yards long. There was a fence at both ends. Next to one
fence was a road. On the far side of the other was a very small clump of
woods.

The flare was growing dim and perilously near the ground as the Martin,
with all switches cut, skimmed the fence and settled. The corn was
nearly as high as the bottom wing. The bomber no more than hit the
ground before darkness came as suddenly as though a light had been
turned off in a room.

The ship wavered, and there was a rending crunch from the landing gear.
Then a crash as the ship nosed up slowly and the front shell of the
observers cockpit folded back until it loosened the instrument board.

“Hooray!”

It was Hinkley shouting.

“Jim, I _never_ was so glad to get on the ground in my life!”

Broughton made a wry face. He was suddenly weak from the strain.

For a moment the two sat there motionless, not even bothering to
unloosen their belts. Then Hinkley turned to look at Graves. That
gentleman was unloosening his belt.

“We thought you might want to smoke a cigaret, so we landed,” said
Hinkley.

Graves held up the frazzled butt of a cigar.

“I chewed it up from the time you got out there on the wing,” he
replied. “We came pretty near trading a Martin for a pair of honest-to
---- wings, didn’t we?”

“Or coal-shovels,” grinned Hinkley.

“How’s Hayden?”

“Came to once and I put him out again and tied him up,” replied Graves
calmly. “Let’s flag this car coming down the road and see where we are.
I’d like to get the first train I can get to.”

“We’re not far from either Lexington or Richmond. I saw the lights of a
big town a few miles north,” said Broughton as all three men climbed
out.

They lifted Hayden out of the back seat. His head was bandaged, and he
was still unconscious.

“I bandaged him up--he was bleeding pretty badly,” remarked Graves,
lighting a new cigar with a steady hand. “Let’s get over to the
road--there’s a regular parade of autos coming.”

A string of headlights extending so far that some were mere points of
light were coming down the road. The noise of a Martin, plus the
parachute flare, had aroused the whole country.

Broughton lingered behind to use an electric-flashlight on the ship. The
ground was soft, and there was a ditch they had hit, besides. That was
the reason for the nose-over. It was better so, he reflected. They would
have run into the fence and then the trees at the further end of the
field, and some one would probably have been hurt.

Within fifteen minutes there were a hundred marveling people around. The
flyers hired a guard for the ship, and then accepted the invitation of a
man who drove a luxurious touring car to spend the night at his home.
Hayden, whose identity was not revealed, spent the night in the town
jail of Ellis, Virginia, guarded by the tireless Graves in addition to
the regular warden, and accompanied that gentleman to Washington by
train early the next moving. He was handcuffed, and rode in a baggage
car to avoid publicity.

As he was leaving Graves shook hands with the flyers in a matter-of-fact
way.

“You’ll hear from me,” he stated. “Perhaps I may see you again before
long. Good-by.”

* * * * *

Hinkley and Broughton had to wait for a crew to come from Langham Field
to dismantle the Martin and ship it home. The day after their return to
the field the newspapers blossomed forth with across-the-page headlines
telling of the round-up of a stupendous conspiracy which had been
responsible for the series of great robberies that had been astounding
the country.

The story of Hayden’s capture was not a part of the press reports, and
Hayden himself was not too prominent in them. They saw Graves’ fine hand
in that. They could readily realize that any revelation of their
identity would be more dangerous than the glory involved would warrant,
even were they desirous of nibbling at the fruits of fame.

A few days thereafter there came a letter to each of them. The contents
were alike. There were two copies of a letter signed by that same great
government official whose name had appeared on Graves’ letter of
authority. The letter was addressed to the Secretary of War. As they
read those letters Hinkley’s smile was as mocking as ever and
Broughton’s face as stoical, but each of them still has his copy,
carefully locked up and preserved as though the most precious of
possessions. As Hinkley once confided to Broughton while slightly under
the influence of the demon rum--

“I don’t think a bit more of that letter than I do my right eye!”