Part 4

“So long. Meet you in the olive grove.” The two went out again and in the shed they found a couple of hatchets, a spade, and a short handled pick, which they took with them to the hole and immediately set to work to locate a weak spot in the mass. Necessity made them search thoroughly and at last they were rewarded by discovering a place where some of the beams had only a few inches of covering, which Jim industriously shoveled out of the way while Carl held the torch.

“Here she comes,” Austin exclaimed with satisfaction. Summers stuck the light in the ground, the two hauled on the boards and presently had a good sized opening.

“It lets us in toward where the door was,” Carl announced and he let himself down. “I say, Old Timer, you light another torch; we’d better each have one so we can see our way and not stumble over each other.”

“Rip snorting idea. Gosh all fishhooks, I’m hungry.”

“There is some grub. You look at the far end, you’ll find a sort of cache I made near the partition. I’ll see if I can get at the wires.” They started on the task but the debris cluttered the root-house so they were forced to proceed slowly, and several times they helped each other lift pieces of logs and rocks out of the way. Finally they were busy at their respective ends, Carl looking for exposed wires, and Jim trying to find some food that had escaped destruction. He had to do more chopping and hammering and, after several minutes he succeeded in clearing a wide section of the partition, but he didn’t locate the cache, so he went to work again, stopping once to kindle a fresh torch, and with its bright light he discovered that he had come through the dug-out to the second cellar.

“Having any luck?” Carl shouted.

“Not much,” he answered. “How about you?”

“I think I’ll have it in a minute,” replied Carl and he began to chop away, while Jim at the opposite end stepped into one of the older sections. Like the front of the place this too was wrecked, but not quite so badly as there had not been such a variety of things to scatter. However, one side was inaccessible, and although Jim saw nothing of special note on the other, he decided to examine it anyway. One thing which attracted his attention was a quantity of paper which looked as if some big books had been torn to bits, and some of their pages burned. Curious, Austin picked up some pieces, wondering from where they had come, then he found out, for right in front of him was an opening. Beyond the boy was a very small room which seemed to be lined with some sort of masonry. It was about seven feet square, and had projections which might have been used for shelves and seats. On the floor was more of the paper, like that which he had picked up outside, but in the poor light the boy could not be sure if it was blank or not.

“A queer joint,” he muttered, but a closer examination revealed nothing more, and there was no explanation as to why the small room was there or for what it had been used. The torch was beginning to burn close to his hand, so he made his way out. They could explore it later.

“Hey, Jim, I got it. Whoopee!”

“Good work.” Jim stuffed a few bits of the paper into his pocket and hurried to see what Summers had accomplished. He found that the deputy had unearthed a wire, had attached his instrument, and was listening for a response to his call. At last it came, then after a moment’s delay, Carl began to put in his message.

“I say, Sheriff, Arthur Gordon, the young fellow, was here. He got away in the Austin’s airplane--” There was a pause. “He blew up the place, but we’re all right, except Kramer, he was shot--” Another pause then Carl looked at Jim. “He wants to know how much gas was in the plane, how far it could go.” Austin frowned and thought hard, then he remembered that as he sat in the cock-pit with the pilot he had calculated that there wasn’t enough to carry them more than about sixty miles.

“Not much unless there was a reserve tank, and I don’t believe there was,” he answered. “We can find out for sure from Kramer, if he is able to talk.”

“Only a little.” Then followed a series of quick questions and answers, and finally Carl disconnected with a sigh of relief. “They discovered at Crofton that they can’t get the ranches up Cap Rock on the telephone and some line men are out looking for the trouble. Your father sent a message through from the Haurea place, sent it to the north station, and it was relayed back. They wanted to know what had happened to us.”

“I suppose our folks are on their way down,” Jim remarked, and he was mighty glad.

“Sure thing. The sheriff is going to broadcast about Gordon and have every plane watched. Too bad it wasn’t earlier in the day, but the landing field will turn on the search lights. It isn’t a dark night and if he has to come down for gas he’ll run the risk of getting picked up.” Carl put the instrument in the spacious pockets and they felt he had done a good job.

“I didn’t find a blame thing to eat, but I guess we can survive until someone comes. Say, Summers, I opened a queer hole, come and look at it,” Jim urged, so he led the way back to the paper-strewn section. They crawled through the opening and Carl stared in puzzled wonder.

“Great guns, I never saw a place like this before.” He tapped about the wall, but made no further discovery.

“What do you suppose it is?”

“Tell you what it might be--a hiding place. Before the blow-up, I looked behind those boards and even went into the second division. It was just another place for storing potatoes, or something like that--canned fruit perhaps,” Carl answered.

“What was this metal room used for? Bob’s mother has a closet for preserves in the cellar at the K-A and she has one on the Cross-Bar, but they’re just built-in places to keep things at an even heat, or cool, nothing like this,” Jim explained.

“Sure, I know, my mother has one. Tell you what, this is an old ranch, was settled by some of the first cowmen when the country was pretty wild. It might be that the owner had this in case of a raid, a place big enough to keep his wife and children, something like that--he might have wanted to keep them safe from Indians--”

“It looks to me as if this is about five or six feet below the surface of the ground and quite a few people could stay here but not for long,” Jim remarked.

“It would protect anyone who got in, from being butchered, or in case the ranch houses were burned,” Carl suggested.

“Perhaps that was it, but I don’t see why all the paper,” Jim argued.

“Neither do I unless they had books, accounts and that sort of thing. Some of the descendants could have used it as a safe-deposit, but I haven’t got another guess. Come on and see how Bob and Kramer are.”

They didn’t wait to do more than throw a few pieces of plank over the openings, and then with new torches they made their way to the bunk house, which was pitch dark. Jim caught Carl’s arm and instinctively the two stepped as softly as the hard snow would permit. When they reached the door, Austin listened, but not a sound came from inside. He tapped softly, his heart hammering against his ribs, with dread lest some thing had happened to his Flying Buddy and Kramer. He wished heartily that they hadn’t lingered so long.

“Knock again,” Carl whispered and Jim did. There was a soft movement from inside, the bar was lifted carefully, and finally the door moved, but only wide enough to permit the barrel of a gun to be poked through.

“Hands up or I’ll blow you up--”

“Buddy--Bob--”

“Oh, why the heck did you come sneaking around like a pair of coyotes? I heard a dozen things since you left. Come on in. Get anything to eat?” The two entered and the younger boy turned up the wick of a small lantern. “Gosh, I thought you fellows had been buried.”

“No, but we got word to the sheriff,” Carl explained. “How’s Kramer?”

“Crazy in the head. He’s been muttering and twisting around until I had to tie him down.” Just then they heard the welcome honk of an automobile, and two minutes later, Mr. Austin and Don Haurea were at the door. “When do we eat?” the substitute doctor demanded.

“Right away, my boy. Your mother knew that you would be hungry--”

“God bless her, she knows we always are,” Caldwell grinned, and the rest of the party laughed heartily.

V

IN THE “LAB.”

“Humph, now I feel as if I am alive!” Bob had just swallowed the last bite of a delicious fried-chicken sandwich, and he blinked contentedly about the room. They were all in the bunkhouse at the Gordon’s. Zargo, who had accompanied Mr. Austin and Don Haurea, had relieved young Caldwell of his patient, so the Flying Buddies and Carl Summers could give their undivided attention to the basket of food the rescuing party had brought with them. At that moment Kramer moved, opened his eyes and stared at the dark man bending over him.

“You are doing well, sir,” Zargo said quietly. There was something very reassuring in the manner of the Box-Z’s overseer, and although the man from the north had never set eyes on him before, the dozen questions that popped into his brain on returning to consciousness began to arrange themselves in an orderly array instead of a confused mass.

“Guess you are a doctor,” he said.

“I know a little,” Zargo admitted.

“I say, Kramer, was there an extra tank of gas in that bus?” Jim asked. “We have been trying to calculate where it would have to come down.”

“Gas? Oh, no, I left the extra ones at your ranch before we went to Crofton. Thought I shouldn’t need them,” he replied.

“Then that chap couldn’t get more than about fifty miles?”

“It would depend upon how he flew. He’ll get about sixty or sixty-five; if he conserves it,” answered Kramer.

“Great, then he would have to come down in Texas. Feel like eating something? There is a little left but believe me it has taken great self-restraint on our parts to save anything.”

“He may have a little, then more before we leave,” Zargo decided, so they arranged a roll of blankets to raise Kramer’s head, and he was ready to eat.

“I can feed him, Old Man,” Bob offered. “Don Haurea wants to go up the cliff to where the plane took off. When you come back we’ll go home. It’s been a nice large night and a good time was had by all.”

“That is an excellent suggestion,” Don Haurea smiled at the irrepressible young fellow. “We shall leave the officer with you,” he added and turned to Carl Summers. “You are both armed, I do not anticipate further attacks, but it is always well to--as the Boy Scouts say--to be prepared.”

“Yes, sir,” Carl agreed, but he wasn’t especially keen about being left behind, for although he had caught occasional glimpses of the owner of the Box-Z this was the first time he had come into close contact with the man who was something of a mystery to his neighbors, and more so to the natives of Crofton, so the deputy greatly regretted not being a member of the investigating party.

“You are a good soldier,” said the tall man, who was, on close acquaintance, proving so very unformidable.

“Thank you, sir.” Carl was immediately eager to take his part in upholding the law and guarding the wounded. The rest of the party got into great coats, wrapped mufflers about their necks, and pulled fur caps over their ears. The three men had strong flashlights, and presently they stepped out into the night anxious to explore the vicinity as quickly as possible. Their first journey was to the scene of the explosion, which interested Don Haurea very little, and finally they made their way to the trail where they began the steep climb to the ledge.

They had to exercise care, for the explosion had loosened huge chunks of rock and ice and as they proceeded Jim was amazed that the plane had not been damaged. At last they reached the spot, but as far as the boy could see there was nothing gained by the trip. However, Don Haurea made his way close to the steep cliff, which rose almost straight as a wall with several broken sections. Carefully the man investigated all of them and a moment after he disappeared into the last one, they heard him call sharply to his servant, who responded immediately, the Austins following close on his heels. To their utter astonishment they saw something huddled in a heap against a rock and as the lights turned fully upon it, they whistled.

“It--why Dad, it’s Jute--Pigeon Jute. I’d forgotten him.” Zargo was bending over the Indian, his capable fingers moving swiftly, then he said something to the Don, and an instant later picked the man up in his arms.

“He was shot,” Don Haurea explained briefly. “We will get him where it is warm and see if we can help him.”

“Shall I go ahead with a light?” Jim asked softly.

“It would be a good plan,” the Don answered, so the boy led the way down the treacherous trail. Zargo might have been carrying an infant for all the effort it took, and finally they were again in the bunkhouse. Bob was too amazed for even the mildest of exclamations, but he jumped in and arranged a bunk.

“We found him near where the plane was,” Mr. Austin explained. Then they waited silently while Zargo examined the Indian, and after what seemed hours, he looked up.

“In a moment he will return to consciousness,” he announced, and he was right. Pigeon Jute opened his dark eyes, looked from one to the other, then tried to raise himself. Don Haurea spoke to him in his own language and the Indian’s eyes lighted. After a minute, he spoke a few sentences, and when he was finished the Don nodded.

“He says that for some time he has been selling--or delivering long distance flying pigeons to Arthur Gordon. He was in the north at the time of the trouble at the Box-Z, so did not hear of it until a few days ago after he had delivered several carriers to a ranch outside of Crofton. When he learned of the difficulty he started to find young Gordon to collect his money. He trailed him to the ranch, but could not locate him until this morning. When you boys left the dugout Jute started up the trail. He was behind the cliffs when the place blew up and was coming back to see if you were hurt when he saw Gordon leap into the plane. He tried to prevent it, but was shot for his pains.”

“Jute can speak English!” Jim remarked.

“Yes, but not so well as his own tongue, which is less effort while he is so weak,” Don Haurea replied.

“Whistling Pigs,” exclaimed Bob, “reckon that’s why Gordon did not favor us with any more lead.”

“Undoubtedly it is,” Don Haurea agreed.

“What was Gordon going to do, or doing with carrier pigeons?” Jim wanted to know. “Are they kept on that ranch?”

“Merely shipped from there. The man told Jute they had sold the place and were waiting for the last birds he brought down.”

“Shipped by rail?”

“Truck, and probably that truck will not appear in the neighborhood again. From the plane, Gordon no doubt dropped a warning, or several of them, and every trace will be obliterated at once.”

“Tough luck,” Jim muttered.

“How many of the wounded can be moved?” Mr. Austin asked practically.

“Both of them,” was the decision. “I shall take Jute to the Box-Z.”

“Kramer is booked for the K-A,” Jim grinned.

“Boy, you’ll have a vacation as is a vacation,” Bob promised. “You can do a Caesar; wire your firm that you came, you saw, and you conquered--”

“Were conquered,” Kramer corrected. “I’ve had a grand trimming--”

“Well, don’t broadcast it, why shouldn’t you have some glory!”

They lost no time in getting the two wounded men into the limousines and although Mr. Austin urged Carl to come to the ranch, the deputy decided to wait for instructions from the sheriff, so at last they drove off, leaving the young fellow alone, but this time there was no anxiety regarding his safety. Seated beside his father, Jim’s eyes stared ahead and his mind was busy. He felt it was a beastly shame that the new plane should have been lost before they had had it twenty-four hours, and although they had made the trip for the mail and newspapers, the bag was now no-one-knew where and the family was deprived of its second investment. The boy was feeling too blue over the theft to discuss the matter so he resolutely tried to put it out of his mind. He thought of young Gordon, with his limited supply of gas, but he had absolutely no hope that the outlaw would be captured. In the first place, it had been hours from the time the machine took off from the cliff before the sheriff could send the alarm, and by that time Gordon would have made good his escape. There were dozens of ways by which he might replenish the fuel supply and go on to the Mexican border, or almost any place. To be sure, a description of the machine would be sent forth but that did not help matters much.

Finally the two cars reached the point in the road where the Austins turned into their own ranch house. As he sped by, Don Haurea waved to the occupants in the other car. Then Jim wondered how it was the Indian had been discovered. He recalled the man’s interest in the cliff, his investigating each crevice, and the finding of Jute. Then another query popped into his mind.

“I say, Dad, is Jute an American Indian?”

“Yes, full-blooded. What made you ask?”

“Just wondered how Don Haurea knew his language,” Jim answered.

“I have heard that as a boy, the Don was always interested in the various tribes and made a point of learning all he could about them. Here we are--and, oh what a shame--” He broke off quickly when he saw the house lighted from top to bottom and knew that Mrs. Austin had not gone to bed, although it was nearly morning. Before they drove to the door, it was thrown open.

“The doctor came from Crofton and is waiting,” Mrs. Austin called, and a moment later the medical man came to help his patient into the house. Over the eastern rim of the mountains the first faint streaks of dawn were breaking before the buddies were ready for bed.

“Kind of rotten about the bus,” Bob said softly.

“All of that,” Jim replied. They turned in to catch up on some of their lost sleep and it was noon before either of them opened his eyes again. The pair joined the family for a “brunch,” which was the name Bob gave to a combination breakfast and lunch. As they lingered over the meal, the telephone rang and Jim went to answer.

“Yes, this is the K-A.” There was a slight pause, then, “yes, wait,” “Oh, Galloping Snails, that’s great, Sheriff! Will you hold the wire a moment please? I say, Dad they found the plane--”

“They did, that is splendid--”

“Did they get Gordon?” Bob demanded.

“No, not a trace of him. Dad, they have got the plane near an aviation field. It’s smashed up some, but not bad, just a few little things--”

“Can they fix it?” Mr. Austin asked.

“Yes, easily, so she’ll be all hunkie-dorie.”

“Ask them to do it, and if they have a pilot, have him fetch it home as soon as it is ready. We are certainly fortunate.”

“All right, Sheriff. Thanks a lot for calling us.” Jim hung up the receiver, and everyone was eager to hear the details.

“I suppose Gordon came down in the night and sneaked off,” Bob suggested.

“They haven’t any idea of what happened to him. One of the airmen saw the plane roaring along and he rode beside her just for companionship. When he looked for the pilot, Gordon, the cock-pit was empty. The fellow thought he was seeing things. Then in a couple of minutes our engine conked, stopped, and began to go down, but she spun around in grand style, going forward, and finally she dropped in a nice smooth section of the plain. The mail-man followed, but she was absolutely empty when he investigated. There was a bag of things on the floor, everything seemed just as it should be, but there wasn’t a trace of the fellow who started off in her,” Jim explained.

“Isn’t that rather amazing?” Mrs. Austin inquired.

“It surely is, Mom. I say, Buddie, was the parachute there?”

“Two; one on the front seat and one on the back.”

“The third one was gone. Gosh, Gordon must have hopped overboard when he saw he couldn’t get very far. Did his exit before anyone could start a search for him. She’s one grand little bus--intelligent animal, to make her own landing all by her lonesome. That ought to make Kramer feel pretty cocky--some talking point for his advertising department.”

“Better run up and tell him. He was feeling badly last night over the loss, and now that the machine will--”

“Be coming home to roost,” Bob grinned. “I’ll break the good news to him gently.” He raced upstairs to tell the salesman, who was delighted and no end set up over the achievement of the machine. While they were discussing the matter, the Box-Z limousine drove up, and Jim went to admit the caller. He discovered that it was Zargo.

“I had to be in this direction and Don Haurea asked me to stop and see if you wish to return with me.”

“Thanks a lot. I’ll be ready in a jiffy. How is Jute?”

“Doing very well, thank you. And Mr. Kramer--”

“Top of the world,” Jim replied.

“That is good news.” The boy hurried into the house.

“Oh, Bob, going to the Don’s this afternoon? Zargo is outside!”

“Guess not, Old Timer. I’ll linger around and keep Kramer from getting rusty, but you ooze along.” Ten minutes later, Jim was in the big car, which was a particularly powerful, smooth-running machine, and now it ate up the miles as it rushed over the road that wound along the edge of Cap Rock.

“Dad told me that when he was a boy this was the stage-coach road. The drivers used to go lickity-split--mostly split--and when the passengers got out most of them would be black and blue from the bumps,” Jim remarked.

“Those days are not so far distant,” Zargo replied. “Your father’s generation has seen many changes.”

“Yes, sir, from covered wagons to airplanes. Besides that there have been the cables, radio, submarines, automobiles and television. When you come to think of it they have had to do some mental jumping to grasp it all. The inventors and discoverers in these days are everlastingly lucky they were not born earlier, during the time when the mob pitch-forked everything that was different and called any kind of progress heresy. Great guns, I never can understand why those old ducks were so opposed to people using their own brains. What a lot of good men and women they cooked when half the world had to believe what a couple of fellows dictated. Zargo, do you believe there is a hell?”

“What is your definition of hell?” the man asked.

“That’s a hot one. A bad place where bad people go when they are dead. Where they have to atone for their sins,” Jim answered.

“And what would you classify as sin?”

“You sure are not going to commit yourself,” the boy chuckled. “Well, I don’t believe God punishes people for their ignorance, but if he does, there’s an army--an everlasting big one--of people who have been powerful enough. I mean held high positions, inflicted torture and suffering on their fellow men, who tried to show the world how everybody could know more--like Galileo, and a lot of fellows. I’d call destroying men like that a sin.”

“You would turn a great many--say standard saints, into sinners.”

“Sure, why not? If they were incapable of rightly classifying their fellows, they just naturally over-estimated their own importance.”

“I should say you have given the matter a good deal of thought.”

“Well, I have some,” the boy flushed. “You know, when you are flying, way up in the sky--through the heavens, no matter what they were doing, it does set a chap’s thinking machine to working. Gosh, I’ll be glad when we get our new plane fixed. When they fetch it home, Bob and I are going to take it to bed with us so nothing can happen to it--wow, here we are.”

The car went purring along the drive under the snow laden willows whose long branches rustled and murmured as the breeze stirred them. It stopped before the door, which was promptly opened by the man servant, and a minute later, Don Haurea was welcoming his pupil, who lost no time in divesting himself of outer garments.