The Boy Aviators in Record Flight; Or, The Rival Aeroplane

CHAPTER IX.
LUTHER BARR FORMS AN ALLIANCE

At daybreak Frank was out of his cot and after dashing cold water over himself – the liquid being carried from a clear stream in a neighboring field in a bucket he aroused his companions and breakfast was soon sending an appetizing odor into the air. The boys fell to with hearty appetites, and after leaving several telegrams and post cards to be forwarded to their friends and parents in New York, they started actively in on preparations for the resumption of their long journey. The new wheel was soon fitted, and found to answer perfectly. The broken wire was also soon adjusted.

The work had just been completed and the auto and aeroplane fed with fresh gasolene, lubricants and water when Witherbee, the miner, who had slept at a hotel in the village, came hurrying up.

“Call me a horn-toad of the sagebrush desert if here ain’t a go, boys!” he exclaimed.

The boys looked up at their new friend and saw that his face was pale and he looked dismayed.

“Whatever is the matter?” they demanded.

“Matter?” echoed the miner; “call me a gila monster if that there dod-gasted Barr and his companions ain’t stolen my pocketbook.”

“Did it have much money in it?” asked Frank in a sympathetic tone, for the poor miner’s distress was very real.

“Why, it had two hundred dollars. All I have till I can get back to Arizonee. Call me a doodelbug, if that ain’t tough luck.”

“It certainly is,” sympathized Harry; “perhaps we could lend you – ”

“Not a cent,” broke in the miner. “Bart Witherbee ain’t borrowing money from kids. But if you’d give me a seat in that benzine buggy of yours I’ll be grateful to you for the rest of my life. Maybe I can help you, too, in the far west. You see, I know that country, and if we run into any bad Indians or cowboys, I can maybe be of some use to you.”

“That’s so,” agreed Frank; “do you think there would be room in the auto, Billy?”

“Sure,” replied the young reporter. “If there isn’t, we’ll make it. We can’t leave Bart Witherbee here penniless.”

“Say, boys, it was the luckiest day of my life when I struck you – call me a comical coyote, if it warn’t!” exclaimed the miner gratefully. “But I’ll make it all up to you when I locate my mine.”

The red-faced man from whom they had leased their camping-place readily agreed to take charge of their letters and telegrams. Indeed, any one in the crowd that gathered to see the start of the boy aviators on the second day of their long trip would have been willing to do anything for them in their enthusiasm over the daring young adventurers.

With a cheer from the crowd the auto bowled off first, vanishing down the road to the west in a cloud of dust. Hardly had it started when there was a loud whirring noise, and down the road came two other motor cars. In the first sat Fred Reade and the red-bearded man, who acted as his assistant, it seemed. In the other, to the boys’ amazement, rode Luther Barr and his two companions of the night before – the western gamblers. Apparently Barr and Reade were on friendly terms, for, as the two machines shot by, Reade turned back in the tonneau and shouted something to Barr, who answered with a wave of the hand.

“Hullo! That looks bad,” exclaimed Harry, as the cars shot by.

“What does?” asked Frank, who had been busy adjusting the engine, and had not seen the motor cars.

“Why, Reade and Barr seem to have joined forces. Depend upon it they are up to some mischief.”

Had the boys known that the night before Luther Barr and the two others had been guests at Reade’s camp, they would have had even more reason to feel apprehensive. In his chase after the Boy Aviators and Bart Witherbee, old Barr had mistaken the road and branched off down a side-track that soon brought him to Reade’s camp, where he and his companions were working over their aeroplane by kerosene flares. The old millionaire recognized Reade at once, stopped and hailed him.

Reade soon explained to him that he was in the aeroplane race as the representative of the Despatch. On Barr inquiring how he came to leave the Planet, Reade explained that his leaving was due to Billy Barnes.

“That interfering cub lost me my job,” he said angrily.

Old Barr was interested at once. Here was another enemy of the Boy Aviators. Perhaps it would be possible to join forces to harass them.

“I see you like the boys as little as I do,” he ventured cautiously.

“Like them,” exclaimed Reade angrily, “I hate them. I hope they lose this race. I mean to prevent them winning by fair means or foul, if I can.”

“Good,” was Barr’s reply; “that’s just the way I feel about it. Now I have a proposition to make to you.”

There followed a long conversation in low tones, the result of which was that old Barr agreed to accompany the Despatch’s party as far as Arizona and the mine, the location of which Witherbee was hiding. He had instantly made up his mind that Reade was a valuable ally.

“I am sure that Witherbee means to let those boys know where the mine is, and give them part of it,” he declared; “and if we can find it first, we can divide it among ourselves.”

Luther Barr had no intention of giving away any part of the mine if he found it. He wanted it all for himself. But he thought that to hold out such a tempting bait would make Reade an even more faithful ally. As for the reporter, he was delighted to have found an enemy of the Boy Aviators. He was a coward, and had been afraid that his party was too small to openly cause them much trouble. Now, however, he was highly pleased at the idea of traveling in such powerful company, and promised himself a “lot of fun with those young cubs.”

And so it came about that Luther Barr and the Despatch auto traveled in company when they broke camp the next morning.

The two autos had hardly passed down the road and out of sight when a shout from the crowd announced that the aeroplane of Arthur Slade was in sight.

“Come on, we’ve got no time to lose,” cried Frank, as he saw the rival aeroplane coming rapidly into view.

Both boys scrambled into their craft, and a moment later, amid a roar from the crowd, they shot upward. As they did so, Slade shot by. He was a powerfully built man, with a mean expression of countenance, and seemed to harbor a spite against the boys, doubtless because he did not like to be pitted against such youthful antagonists.

“I’ll win this race hands down,” he shouted, as he swept by.

As the boys’ aeroplane gathered velocity, however, they overhauled him, and all day the two air-craft fought it out desperately. There seemed to be little difference between them, and the boys resolved that they were in for the tussle of their lives if they meant to win the race. The dirigible hung doggedly on, about three miles in the rear. Her crew did not seem to be urging her. Doubtless they reasoned that in a race of such length it was a good plan to husband their resources and not urge their ship forward too fast.

“The gasolene is running low,” announced Harry, shortly after noon, “and we need some more oil.”

“All right; send out a wireless, and we’ll drop in a convenient place,” replied Frank.

The auto was some distance behind, but a reply to Harry’s message soon flashed back to the occupants of the aeroplane, and a few minutes after they had landed in a smooth, green meadow the auto came chugging up. The tank was replenished, and a hasty luncheon eaten. By this time both the rival aeroplane and the dirigible were out of sight. As the boys had seen nothing further of the autos occupied by Reade and Luther Barr, they concluded they must be traveling on another road – which was, in fact, the case.

“Aren’t you scared to let the other aeroplane get such a long lead?” asked Billy, as the boys made ready to resume their flight.

“They won’t get very far,” said Frank lightly. “You see, they will have to come down for fresh gasolene, just as we did. They have got an air-cooled engine, too, and if they run it too long it will get heated and stop, so that they will have to quit for a while, too.”

“How about the dirigible?”

“The only chance it has to win this race is for both the aeroplanes to break down,” said Harry. “We can pass it even if it got a twenty-mile lead.”

The Golden Eagle flew on during the afternoon without incident. It was getting toward sundown, and Frank was thinking of descending and camping for the night, when, as they were passing high above a spot where four cross-roads intersected, they spied below them the two autos of Barr and Reade drawn up near to the rival aeroplane, which, as Frank had said, had been compelled to come down to replenish her tanks.

Through his glasses Harry scrutinized the group. They were gathered about Slade’s aeroplane, and seemed to be discussing excitedly.

“I thought so,” said Harry, as he put the glasses back in their pocket at the side of the pilot house.

“Thought what?” asked Frank.

“Why, I guess there’s something the matter with their cylinders. Over-heated, I guess. They were pouring water on them when I looked through the glass.”

Hardly had he spoken when there was a singing sound in the air close by his ear. It was like the droning of a big June bug.

“Pretty high for a bug to be flying,” commented Harry.

“That wasn’t any bug, Harry,” contradicted Frank, “it was a bullet.”

“What! they are firing at us again?”

“Evidently.”

There came another whistling in the air, as a second projectile whizzed by.

“We ought to have them arrested,” exclaimed Harry indignantly.

“How are we to prove who fired the shots?” rejoined Frank.

He was right. At the time they whizzed by the aeroplane was over a clump of woods which effectually concealed from her occupants the identity of the wielder of the rifle. Barr’s party had evidently speeded their autos in under the trees and were firing from them. No more bullets came, however. Probably the shooters saw the futility of trying to get good aim through the thick foliage.

Camp that night was made beside a small river, in which Witherbee soon caught a fine mess of yellow perch. These, cooked with the old plainsman’s skill, made an agreeable variation from the usual camp fare, and were despatched by the hungry boys in an incredibly short time.

Of the other aeroplane they had seen nothing since they passed her in the afternoon.

“This means we get a good long lead,” rejoiced Frank.

But the boys were doomed to disappointment, for shortly before midnight the whirring noise of an engine was heard overhead, and, looking upward, the adventurers, awakened by Billy, who was on watch, saw a dark body pass overhead.

“It’s Slade’s machine!” cried Frank.

Shortly afterward the dirigible also went by, with several lights displayed about her decks. The boys shot up a ray of light from the searchlight on the auto, and were greeted by a cheer from the men on the dirigible.

“Well, if those fellows think they can steal a night march on us, we’ll fool ’em,” exclaimed Frank. “Here, Harry, let’s have a look at that map. I must lay out a course, and then we’ll get after them. You fellows break camp and be ready to follow us in the auto.”

There was a lot of bustle and excitement while Frank, by the light of an auto-lamp, with compasses, dividers and measured rule, worked out a course. A route was soon devised.

“All ready?” he cried at last, when final directions had been given.

“All ready,” said Billy, tightening the ropes that held the tarpaulin covering the supplies in the auto.

“Then we’re off,” cried Frank, as he and Harry jumped into the Golden Eagle, and with a rattling roar of explosions glided into the air.

CHAPTER X.
A NIGHT VOYAGE

Sailing through the air at night is a vastly different thing to the delightful exhilaration of a day voyage. In the latter case, all is plain going – provided, of course, the weather conditions are right – below the aviator is spread out, like a many-colored carpet, a glowing landscape dotted with peaceful hamlets, busy smoky cities, and quiet farms and patches of woodland. But at night all is changed. The darkness hangs about the driving air-craft like a pall. The aviator anxiously scans the earth below him for an occasional light or the glare that a distant city casts on the sky. It is by those means alone that he can get his bearings, unless he is a skilled navigator and steers by the compass. Even then he may get lost. All is uncertainty.

So intent on overtaking their rivals, however, were the boys, that they reckoned little of the risks they ran, and kept the Golden Eagle headed on an almost due westerly course. The tiny shaded light above the binnacle was the only speck of illumination about the air-ship. Luckily the moon cast a bright, white illumination, but the luminary was waning, and was already low in the western sky. Soon all would be as black as a well.

“Heard anything from the auto?” asked Frank, with a backward glance, after they had been running about an hour thus.

“Not a thing,” rejoined Harry; “that means they must have a light in sight.”

“Still, I should like to know just where they are. Send them a flash.”

Harry bent over the wireless key and sent a message crackling into the night:

“Send up a flare.”

The answer soon came. From far below them a blue illumination lit up the trees and along a stretch of road in a lurid glare. The amused young aviators could see horses and cattle out at pasture in the quiet fields galloping for dear life at the alarming apparition.

“Can you see any sign of the others?” asked Frank, some minutes later.

Both boys had in the interval been peering anxiously ahead into the night.

“Not a sign, can you?”

“Not yet.”

“We ought to catch sight of them soon.”

“That’s so. We should have no difficulty in making out the dirigible, illuminated as she is.”

The boys lapsed into silence, straining their eyes ahead in vain.

Suddenly Harry gave a shout.

“There she is, about four points off our course to the north.”

“That’s right. That’s the dirigible, sure enough. Now, comparing her speed with that of Slade’s machine, he cannot be far off.”

“Say, we’ve been making time, all right.”

“I should say we have. But look! Something’s the matter with the dirigible.”

As Harry spoke they saw the row of lights by which they had picked the gas-supported craft out of the night suddenly waver and then begin to drop.

“They are going to descend,” cried Harry amazedly.

“Evidently. Look there!” he broke off with a sharp exclamation.

A red glare suddenly enveloped the dirigible, showing her every outline.

“It’s a distress signal!” was the elder lad’s excited shout. “Something has happened.”

“I’ll tell the boys in the auto to answer it,” suggested Harry.

He sent out a sputtering wireless, which was soon answered by a blue glare from the auto. An answering illumination from the dirigible went up.

“They’ve seen our signal,” cried Frank. “Now, Harry, switch on the searchlight.”

“What for?”

“To pick out a landing-place by. I don’t want to risk our necks by dropping in the dark.”

“You are going to land and help them?”

“Of course; they may be in serious trouble. It is our duty to aid them.”

“But Slade’s machine?”

“Well, he’ll make a big gain on us to-night, I’m afraid, but it can’t be helped. They have signaled for assistance, and we’ve got to go to their help.”

The white finger of light of the searchlight began to sweep the ground below them. So far as they could see, they were traveling over a cleared country only interspersed here and there by clumps of trees.

“This looks as good a place to drop as any,” said Frank as he scrutinized the nature of the country over which they were soaring in slow circles.

Harry assented.

“Tell me when to cut out the engine,” he said.

“I’ll do that myself,” replied Frank. “I’ll do it with the emergency cut-outs. We might have to shift up again in a hurry, and the engine acts more quickly on the driving wheel controls.”

The aeroplane began to drop. About a quarter of a mile from her the dirigible was settling, too. Her crew kept burning flares so as to see that they didn’t blunder into any growth that might have ripped their gas bag.

The boys reached the earth without a mishap, and found themselves in a rocky meadow, about a hundred yards from the road. In a few minutes the auto came chugging along with an excited party on board.

“What is it?”

“What has happened?”

“What’s the matter?”

“Call me a tenderfoot if I didn’t think it was Pain’s fireworks.”

The exclamations and questions came in a perfect volley.

“One at a time, one at a time,” laughed Frank; “we’re not phonographs.”

“You scared the life out of us,” interjected Billy Barnes.

“Well, you needn’t worry about the Golden Eagle; with the exception of the time we are losing, she is as sound as a bell, but the dirigible over yonder is in some distress. We had better hop in the auto and drive in that direction.”

Luckily the road went in the direction in which the dirigible had last been seen, and a short distance down the main track the boys found a field path leading off into an enclosure in which they could see men scurrying round the big dirigible with lanterns in their hands. They seemed much perturbed, and the boys could hear their loud expressions of disgust at their sudden stoppage.

“Dirigible ahoy!” hailed Frank, as the auto rolled up; “what’s the trouble?”

“Oh, hello – are you the Boy Aviators?” said a pleasant-faced man, whom the boys recognized as James McArthur, the driver and owner of the craft. “It’s mighty good of you to come to our aid. Yes, we’ve cracked a propeller blade, and are in a bad fix. You see, we lost a lot of gas in dropping, and that means we’ll have to lighten the ship.”

“I hope it doesn’t put you out of the race,” sympathized Frank; “it’s too bad such an accident should have occurred.”

“It is, indeed,” said Mr. McArthur. “We were doing so well, too.”

“If you will let us I think we can help you out,” volunteered Frank.

“If you only could,” exclaimed the other eagerly.

“We’ve got a spare propeller in the auto. If you like, I can let you have it till you reach Pittsburg or some town where you can get a new one fitted.”

“Oh, I couldn’t think of depriving you.”

“Not at all. I don’t think there is a chance of our having any accident to our propellers. You are welcome to it.”

Mr. McArthur, with profuse expressions of thanks, thereupon gratefully accepted the propeller which the boys unpacked from its place in the big tonneau of their car. It was not long before it was bolted in place, and the dirigible ready to start. The new propeller was a trifle smaller than the old one, but the driver of the dirigible was confident he could get good results with it. Before he started, however, he had to drop three of his men, with instructions to them to walk to the nearest town and then take the train for Pittsburg, at which city he could get fresh supplies of hydrogen gas. In the meantime McArthur and one man were to handle the dirigible, and almost every bit of ballast she carried was sacrificed.

Amid a perfect tornado of thanks, which they would have been glad to dodge, the boys hurried back to the Golden Eagle, and were soon once more in the air. Daybreak found them flying about nine hundred feet above a hilly, sparsely settled country.

As the light grew brighter, which it did slowly, with a promise of rain, they gazed eagerly about them in every direction. Far behind them they could see the tiny speck of the dirigible, laboring along with her small propeller, but of the Slade machine there was not a sign.

“Well, he has got a start of us this time, for fair,” exclaimed Harry, as the boys looked blankly at each other, following the result of their scrutiny.

“There’s nothing to do but keep doggedly on,” rejoined Frank, “but we ought to reach Pittsburg to-night. It looks as if we are in for a rain-storm, too.”

“It certainly does,” rejoined Harry. “Well, there’s one consolation, Slade can’t do any better in the rain than we can.”

“No, that’s so,” rejoined Frank, but there was little elation in his tone.

For a time the boys sat in silence. It was broken by a sharp shout from Harry.

“Frank! Frank! look there!”

They were flying above a farm-house, from the chimney of which a cheerful column of smoke was ascending. Hungry and tired as the boys were, they could in imagination smell the breakfast coffee, the aroma of the frizzling bacon and the hiss of the frying eggs. But what had caused Harry’s shout was clear enough. Outside the farm-house stood two automobiles, which they recognized as those of Barr and Fred Reade, and a short distance from the two cars stood the Despatch’s aeroplane.

“They’ve stopped for breakfast,” exultingly cried Frank; “here’s where we get ahead of them.”