Flying Eagle

by Tim Champlin

  “Get a grip on those lines and brace yourselves,” Hall ordered over his shoulder, keeping his eyes glued to the onrushing mountainside. “We’ll be going in hard. There’s a break in the trees and I think I saw a little meadow just beyond, but I couldn’t be sure. I’ll try to set us in there, but it’ll be tough. I don’t have much control. If we start to go into the trees, get down and cover your faces.”

  Jay and Cutter silently backed to opposite sides of the small basket and hooked their arms around the suspension lines.

  Jay glanced over and down. The mooring lines were now dragging through the wind-tossed pines that were rushing past no more than ninety feet below them. Jay held his breath. At the speed they were going, it would be a miracle if they lived through this crash. The wicker basket would be smashed to pieces against one of those hundred-foot ponderosa trunks, and what was left of their broken bodies would fall through the limbs to the rocky slope below. Jay’s knees were weak.

  Something jerked at the basket, like a fish tentatively testing the bait on a line. Then a sudden and violent jerk nearly tipped the basket over as one of the mooring lines snagged below them. All three of the men were literally hanging by their arms on the lines as the basket lay on its side, the wind still pulling the balloon.

  Before Jay could even get his feet braced, the line pulled loose and the basket shot forward, righting itself under the collapsing balloon. The last thing he was aware of was the onrushing of dark green treetops as the basket shot into the pines on the steeply-angled hillside. He shut his eyes and hung on desperately as they hit and then felt the gondola strike, throwing him sideways. The suspension lines cut into his arms. The basket spun, swung free for a second and then struck again and he felt the basket dropping. There was a crashing and smashing and stinging as tree limbs lashed his face and body. Then something hit the side of his head and his arms and legs went limp.

  Chapter Eleven

  He could have been unconscious only a few seconds, it seemed to Jay when he opened his eyes, but his next thought was that he was mortally hurt since he could hardly breathe and there was a sharp pain in his abdomen. Then he realized that he was hanging, draped over one of the suspension lines that was cutting into his midsection and restricting his movement. It was almost too dark to see anything, but he groped with his hands for the edge of the basket about a foot to his left. It was wedged at a precarious angle into the top limbs of a giant ponderosa pine. His head hurt where it had slammed into something and he could feel warm blood trickling down his face from his right temple. He uttered a silent prayer of thanks that he was still alive and, from what he could feel, not seriously hurt.

  Moving carefully, so as not to slip, he moved his left leg and left hand back to the basket, and then very gently pulled himself back toward it, holding the line with the other hand. As his weight settled on the edge, the basket gave a lurch and dropped down about a foot. Jay’s heart jumped and he grabbed for something to hold onto. But the basket didn’t fall any farther. It was wedged at a forty-five degree angle, cradled by three branches near the top of a huge tree. The suspension lines were tangled in the conifer’s limbs, and the lines and the balloon itself streamed off into the darkness somewhere beyond his sight.

  Being careful not to shift his weight, he checked himself for any further injuries. Nothing appeared to be broken. His head ached. The scalp wound that had stunned him was bleeding freely, but otherwise he seemed to be sound.

  Where was Fletcher Hall? And Marvin Cutter? Had they been pitched clear? Was he the only one left alive? For a moment he felt cold fear. The feeling was heightened by the sound of the chill night wind sighing through the evergreen branches with a noise like rushing water. He shivered. Then he felt his ankles turning on something piled in the bottom of the basket. He felt with his hands. Two of the metal tanks had broken their fastenings in the comers and were underfoot. Then his probing hands encountered a body under the cold metal of the tanks. He wished vainly for a light. His hands encountered the face and the stubbly beard and the long hair. It was Marvin Cutter. He let out a groan and moved slightly. He was alive. Jay pulled the heavy canisters off his legs and crouched to shove them back out of the way.

  “Are you hurt?”

  The answer was another groan and a deep sigh as Cutter pushed himself up to a sitting position.

  “Are you all right?” Jay repeated.

  “Yeah. I think so,” came the whispered reply. “Kinda dizzy.” He paused. “I was on the floor. One o’ those tanks musta hit me in the back o’ the neck. I can hardly move my head.”

  Jay reached down and took the small man under the arms and lifted him to his feet.

  “Oh!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Musta twisted my knee.” He balanced gingerly on one foot in the canted basket and leaned on the edge with both arms.

  “Where’s Hall?”

  “Down here,” came the strong reply.

  “Where?”

  Nothing answered them but a grunt and a crack of a limb close by.

  The basket rocked perilously as fingers gripped it.

  “Give me a hand up.”

  Cutter hopped out of the way and Jay gripped the aeronaut’s wrists and helped him work his way into the basket.

  He brushed himself off and wiped a hand across his face. “Damn good thing that mooring line caught on something and snatched us up at the last second. Otherwise, we’d have hit a lot harder. Probably torn right through these limbs and hit a trunk—or the ground.” He looked around, but the darkness now obscured everything. “Anybody hurt?”

  “Nothing real serious. I got rapped on the head and Cutter had those tanks fall on him. Twisted a knee.”

  “Can you put your weight on it?” Hall asked.

  A pause. “Yeah. Barely.”

  “Hope my balloon isn’t torn up where it can’t be fixed.”

  A stronger gust of wind swayed the top of the huge tree. Jay instinctively gripped the edge of the tilted basket. “Oohh! This is like being at the top of a ship’s mast in a heavy sea.”

  “Be as still as you can,” Hall said. “I don’t know how securely this basket is wedged in here. We could still fall.”

  “We’re a long way up,” Jay said peering down into the rushing noise of wind-tossed darkness below.

  “You can bet we are,” Hall replied. “These pines get big. Could be a hundred, hundred-fifty feet or more to the ground.”

  “What now?” Jay asked. “We can’t spend the night up here.”

  “Unless there’s a storm brewing, the wind usually dies as the sun goes down,” Hall observed.

  But the wind, even though the sky was clear and speckled with stars, showed no sign of letting up. It was going to be very cold in this treetop tonight.

  “See if you can pull in one or both of those mooring lines,” Hall directed. “If they’re not too tangled, we can use those to get down. They’re plenty long enough.”

  One of the lines was hopelessly snarled in the trees behind them, and no amount of jerking and pulling could free it. It felt as if it were tied to a spring. It would come in a foot or so and then snap right back when the tension was released.

  “Quit yanking on it,” Hall said. “You might jar this basket loose. Here, I’ve got the other one.”

  He finished pulling it in, hand over hand, until the entire length of the three-hundred-foot rope lay piled around their feet. After some discussion, they decided not to risk letting the rope straight down from the basket for fear that their weight, jerking on the basket as each descended, might dislodge it and send it crashing down through the branches. Instead, Jay took the loose end of the line and crawled out onto a branch and made his way carefully in to the trunk of the big pine. The top of the tree was swaying in the stiff breeze and several times he had to stop and lock his legs around the limb and hang on as the top bent to a heavy gust. He closed his eyes in the windy darkness more than a hundred feet from the ground and felt an empty feeling i
n the pit of his stomach.

  The gust passed and he scooted along the narrow branch to the trunk. He glanced up and could see the stars through the top branches. He guessed he was no more than a dozen feet from the top. At this height, the trunk was slim enough to wrap his arms around. He slid the loose end of the rope around the rough bark and began easing his way back to the basket, pulling the end of the rope with him.

  Once back inside, Jay pulled the rope through to its end. They studied the problem of securing the line to something stable and finally decided to just drop it over the limb the basket was resting on and let it fall straight down. Even with a stiff neck and an injured knee, Marvin Cutter assured them that he could manage the climb down. Jay didn’t doubt him. He had seen the little man hanging to the line in free flight and knew he was stronger than he looked with a wiry, whip-like strength. Jay couldn’t wait to get on the ground and volunteered to go first. The wind was drying the sweat on his body and chilling him. His head was throbbing and his stomach was growling with hunger.

  He slipped over the edge and made his way back to the trunk. Then he took a firm grip on the rope, pulled it tight, and began his descent, feet pressed against the rough trunk, and stepping on limbs where he could. He could see little or nothing, so he kept his eyes slitted against the pine needles and limbs that brushed his face. He paused to shake the line loose where it had hung up on a branch two or three times, but the farther down he got, the larger the branches and the thicker the trunk. He had never climbed down this distance before, but he managed to walk and slide and struggle his way down the trunk from limb to limb, the twigs scratching his hands and face. In a few minutes, his feet thudded on a soft, springy carpet of pine needles. He breathed a prayer of thanks. He had never really expected to arrive back on earth this gently.

  “Okay! All clear!” he yelled up through cupped hands. He waited, unable to see or hear anything. He hoped the wind hadn’t whisked his voice away. But shortly, the rope began to jerk and wiggle and before long, Marvin Cutter slid down gingerly beside him and hopped out of the way for Fletcher Hall who arrived a few minutes later. Tied around his waist were the two sandbags filled with the contents of the Wells Fargo box. His field glasses hung down his back.

  “Here, you can pack this,” Hall said, untying the sandbags and handing them to Jay. Jay threw a quick loop in the cord to take up some of the slack and slung the bags over his shoulder. Jay was grateful that he and the others survived and also that the precious cargo entrusted to his care was retrieved and secure for now.

  “Got any matches?” Hall asked.

  Jay shook his head. Then, realizing no one could see the motion, replied, “No.”

  “I’ve got some,” Hall said.

  “Good. Let’s see if we can find a break in these trees or some kind of a sheltered spot near some rocks and get a fire going,” Jay said. He started down the slope, slipping and sliding on the slick pine needles. The other two followed his lead. Once his feet slipped out from under him and he sat down hard. He got up and paused to catch his breath as he waited for the other two.

  “Where the hell you going in such a hurry, McGraw?” Hall grunted as he came up.

  Jay didn’t reply. He stood for a moment, trying to orient himself. He would continue downhill until the land either leveled off, or they broke out of these trees, or they came to a stream or some obstacle. He noted how still it was. He could hear the wind still sighing in the treetops far above them. He felt closed in and protected by the giant trunks. He loved the clean, fresh smell of pine. But his appreciation of this was tempered by the pounding in his head with every accelerated heartbeat.

  “Hell, you’ve run off and left the skinny thief—uh, what’s his name?”

  “Marvin Cutter.”

  “Yeah. Did you forget he’s got a bad knee? I was trying to help him, but you ran off in such a hurry, I had to catch up and tell you to wait.”

  Jay said nothing. He had just taken off down the slope and it was so steep, he had found himself going faster and faster, dodging among the widely spaced tree trunks. There was no undergrowth. It had long since been shaded out by this pine forest. But the way was often blocked with deadfalls—giant trunks lying on the ground or at an angle, caught in the live growth when they fell.

  “We need to make sure which direction we’re going,” Hall said. “I want to be able to find my balloon again.”

  “If you’re that worried about it, why don’t you stay with it?” Jay asked, irritably, as they stooped under a massive trunk, Jay snagging his coat on the sharp point of a dead limb.

  Hall just looked at him in the darkness.

  “Unless you’ve got a compass, how are you going to tell what direction we’re going? Can’t see the stars and the moon’s not up.”

  “I happen to have a compass in my pocket,” Hall said, “but I’m not going to waste a match to look at it just now.”

  There was a scuffling in the dark as Cutter half-slid, half-hopped down the steep incline toward them.

  He came to a stop and leaned against a huge tree trunk. He was breathing heavily, but he said nothing and made no complaint about being left. A man who had risked his life to escape with them wasn’t going to start whining now. He was apparently used to taking whatever Fate dealt and making the best of it. He was the intruder here and, evidently, was not going to force himself in as an equal. The man was pitiful and suddenly Jay felt ashamed of himself.

  “Come here. Put your arm around my shoulder,” Jay instructed him, at the same time slipping his own arm around the other man’s slim waist. “Let’s go.”

  They started again.

  Suddenly Jay felt a widening of the darkness around them. He stopped as Hall came up behind them. They had come out from under the trees and the slope had begun to level out under their feet. There was still no moon, but the starry night made vision barely possible. They made their way more carefully now and stopped only when Jay heard the gurgling sound of a stream ahead of them.

  He unslung the canvas sandbags from his shoulder relieved to drop the burden. Although not particularly heavy, the bags had been causing the rope connecting them to dig into his shoulder. Then he remembered he had dumped two extra boxes of cartridges into the treasure box.

  He made Cutter sit down on the ground while he went forward to the edge of the rushing mountain stream. Feeling carefully around the bank, he pulled out several good-sized rocks, brought them a few yards back from the stream, and formed a small fire ring. Then he walked along the edge of the stream, kicking here and there, until he found a pile of dead brush caught in a small evergreen by some past floodwater. He dragged out several armfuls and called to Hall to help him carry it back to the fire ring. With the dry tinder and handfuls of dead pine needles, it was no problem getting a fire started with the wooden matches Hall carried. There was still a fitful breeze, but nothing like the gale that had been blowing earlier. Maybe the weather was going to give them a little respite.

  There was little or no talk as the fire was kindled. As it began to blaze and crackle, flaming up to push the darkness back a few yards around them, Jay could feel his spirits picking up as well. Cold, hungry, and tired as he was, as they all had to be, at least he was young and strong and had sustained no injuries, except the blow to the side of his head. Except for the dried blood matting his hair and the remains of a headache, he was none the worse for his experience.

  “Wish we had something to carry water in,” Jay remarked. He helped Cutter down to the edge of the stream where the three of them had a long drink and Jay washed the clotted blood from his head and splashed some of the ice-cold water in his face. Then they came back to sit by the fire, saying little, as they stared into the flames. Each man was intent on his own thoughts. But one among them had little worry about where they would go or what they would do next. Jay looked across the fire at Marvin Cutter, stretched out on his back, his jacket hugged about him, eyes closed and mouth agape. He was asleep. When you lead the life he
has led, you learn to sleep anywhere and anytime the opportunity presents itself, Jay thought.

  He, himself, was very weary. The stress and the fear were draining away, replaced by the warmth of the relaxing fire. He might as well sleep, too. There was nothing much they could do about finding their way out of here until daylight. He looked around for a soft spot to lie down on the grassy slope.

  A branch cracked somewhere in the near darkness and he sat upright, reaching for his pistol. He and Hall scrambled away from the fire as the unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps crunched toward them.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Sounds like a bear!” Hall whispered as the two of them crouched in the darkness, guns drawn.

  “Couldn’t be attracted by the smell of our food,” Jay whispered back, wryly. “And we’re downwind of whatever’s coming.”

  “Might be drawn by the light of the fire,” Hall answered. “This is grizzly country. And I doubt if there’s anything in these mountains that challenges them.”

  They paused, listening, but the noise had ceased. Whatever small sounds might be out there were masked by the rushing sound of the nearby mountain stream.

  “We shoulda dragged Cutter outa there,” Jay whispered.

  “Too late now. Whatever’s out there is just on the other side of the light now.”

  The footsteps had started again, and they could hear one every few seconds as a foot noisily encountered some loose rocks or dry brush. Whatever it was was making no attempt at silence.

  Then the footsteps stopped again, very close, but just beyond the firelight. Jay held his breath, his Colt Lightning cocked. Silence.

  “Hello, the fire!”

  Jay jumped at the strong sound of a voice so near.

  “Anybody here?”

  “Move into the light!” Jay yelled, flattening himself on the ground in case the man fired at the sound of his voice.

  Marvin Cutter had sprung awake at the first shout, and was crouching by the fire like a frightened animal, ready to flee. But Jay knew he couldn’t move fast, the way he was favoring his injured leg.