by B. M. Bower
Through the screen of branches he looked out across the little valley, but he could not see any one at all, not even Mateo. So he turned to his one solace, The Thunder Bird, and dusted it as carefully as a young girl dusts her new piano. With a handful of waste he went over the motor, wiping it until it shone wherever shining was possible, and tried not to think of the man on the hillside. That was Cliff’s affair—until Johnny was ready to make the affair his.
“I wish I knew just what he’s up to,” Johnny fretted. “If I just knew something! I’d look like a boob now, wouldn’t I, if the guards nabbed us? They might try to pin most anything on me, and I wouldn’t have any comeback. It don’t look good, if anybody asks me! And if they—”
“Man’s come here,” Rosa announced close behind him in a tense whisper. “Walking.”
Johnny jumped and went on his toes to a spot where he could look through the foliage.
“Walking down,” explained Rosa, and waved a skinny hand toward the hill behind them.
“Did you see him?”
“No, senor. I’m seeing rocks falling where somebody walks down.”
There was nothing to do but wait. Johnny pushed the girl toward the cabin and saw her scramble under the lowest branches and join the others unconcernedly, tagging the boy Josef, and, then running off into the open—where she could see the hillside—with Josef running after. She did not seem to be watching the hill, while she was apparently absorbed in dodging Josef, but Johnny gathered from her gestures that the man was still coming and that he was making for the cabin. He was wondering what she meant by suddenly sinking to the ground in shrill laughter, when he heard a step behind him. He whirled, startled, his hand jerking back toward the gun he wore.
“I approve your watchfulness, but you happened to be watching in the wrong direction,” said Cliff, brushing dirt from his hunting clothes. “Well, they are getting warm, old man. They have eliminated Riverside as a probable hang-out for the mystery plane, and—” He waved a hand significantly while he stood his shotgun against the bole of the tree.
“Some one saw us land in this valley,” he added. “Luckily they do not suspect Mateo yet. I saw him going down the flat and sent him on to tell the patrol a lot they already knew. He saw the plane come down, but has not been able to find the exact spot. He thinks it took the air again. His ninos told him of a big bird flying east. Great boy, Mateo. Great kids. Did they see me coming?”
“Sure they did. Rosa’s eagle eye spotted a rock or two rolling down and came and told me.”
“Good girl, Rosa. The car’s over in another valley, parked under a tree very neatly and permanently and in plain sight. Its owner is off hunting somewhere. By its number plates they will never know it. Good old car.”
“You seem tickled to think they’re after you,” Johnny observed, rolling a cigarette by way of manifesting complete unconcern. “What’s the next move?”
“Get me across without letting them see where we come from. Can you fly at night?”
“Sure, I can fly at night. Don’t the Germans fly at night all over London? I won’t swear I’ll light easy, though.”
“There’ll be a moon,” said Cliff. “I’ve got to get over, and I’ve got to light, and I’ve got to get back again. There are no if’s this time; it’s got to be done.”
“A plane chased us, day before yesterday,” Johnny informed him, fanning the smoke from before his face and squinting one eye while he studied Cliff. “It was a long way off, and I got down before it was close enough to see just where I lit. It came back yesterday and scouted around, flying above five thousand feet up. Today I saw two of them sailing around, but they didn’t fly over this way. They were over behind this hill, and high. We’d better do our flying at night, old-timer.”
“You can dodge them. You’ve got to dodge them,” said Cliff.
“If I fly,” Johnny qualified dryly.
“You’ve got to fly. You’re in to your neck, old man—and there’s a loop ready for that.” Then, as though he had caught himself saying more than was prudent, he laughed and amended the statement. “Of course, I’m just kidding, but at that, it’s important that you make this flight and as many more as you can get away with. There’s something to be brought back tonight—legitimate news, understand, but of tremendous value to the Syndicate.” He reached into his pocket and drew out an envelope such as Johnny had learned to associate with money.
“Here’s two thousand dollars, old man. The boss knows the risk and added a couple of hundred for good measure, this week. When you land me over there tonight I’ll give you this.” He smiled disagreeably. “I think you’ll fly, all right—for this.”
“Sure, I’ll fly—for that. I was kidding. For two thousand I’d fly to Berlin and bring back a lock of old Kaiser Bill’s hair.”
“That’s the way to talk, old man! I knew you were game. I told the boss so, when he asked if we could count on you. I said you had nerve, no political prejudices, and—that you need the money.”
“That’s my number, I guess,” Johnny admitted, grinning.
Cliff laughed again, which made three distinct impulses to laughter in one conversation. This was not like Cliff’s usual conservatism. As Johnny had known him he laughed seldom, and then only at something disagreeable. He was keyed up for something; a great coup of some sort was in sight, Johnny guessed shrewdly, studying Cliff’s face and the sparkle in his eyes. He was like a man who sees success quite suddenly where he has feared to look upon failure. Johnny wondered just what that success might mean—to others.
“I bet you’re putting over something big that will tickle Uncle Sam purple,” he hazarded, giving Cliff a round-eyed, admiring glance.
“It will tickle him—purple, all right!” Cliff’s tone had a slight edge on it. “You’re sitting in a big game, my boy, but you aren’t paid to ask questions. You go ahead and earn your two thousand. You do the flying, and let some one else do the thinking.”
“I get you,” said Johnny laconically and took himself and his thinkless brain elsewhere.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
JOHNNY MAKES UP HIS MIND
“No political prejudices—hunh!” Johnny was filling the gas tank, and while he did it he was doing a great deal of thinking which he was not paid to do. “This newspaper business—say, she’s one great business, all right. It’s nice to have a boss that jumps your wages up a couple of hundred at a lick, and tells you you needn’t think, and you mustn’t have any political prejudices. Fine job, all right. Will I fly by moon-light? Will I? And them government planes riding on my tail like they’ve been doing the last two trips? Hunh!”
Cliff came then with a bundle under his arm. Johnny cast a suspicious eye down at him, and Cliff held up the package.
“I want to take this along—rockets; to let them know we’re coming. Then they’ll have flares for us to land by.”
“Been planning on some night-riding, hunh?”
“Naturally; I would plan for every contingency that could possibly arise.”
“Hunh. That covers them planes that have been line-riding over this way, too, I reckon.” Johnny climbed down and prepared to pump a little more air into one tire.
“Possibly. Don’t let those airplanes worry you, old man. They have to catch us, you know.”
“No? I ain’t worrying about ’em. The one that does the thinking on this job can do the worrying. I’m paid to fly.” Johnny laughed sourly as he glanced up from where he squatted beside the wheel.
“Let it go at that. Are you about ready? It will be dark in another half hour—dark enough to fly, at least.” Cliff was moving about restlessly in the gloom under the tree. For all his earlier exhilaration he seemed nervous, in haste to be done.
“You said moonlight,” Johnny reminded him, putting away the pump.
“I know, but it’s best to get out of here and over the line in the dark, I think. The moon will be up in less than an hour. Be ready to leave in half an hour—and don’t start the m
otor until the very last minute. Mateo has not come back yet. If they are holding him—”
“I’m ready to go when you are. Let’s run her out before it’s plumb dark under here. She can’t be seen in this light very far—and if a man comes close enough to see her, he’d get wise anyway. Uh course,” he apologized quickly, “that’s more thinking than I’m paid to do, but you got to let me think a little bit now and then, or I can’t fly no two thousand dollars worth tonight.”
“I meant thinking about my part in the game. All right, I’ve got her right, on this side. Take up the tail and let’s run her out.”
In the open the children were running back and forth, playing tag and squealing over the hazards of the game. When the Thunder Bird rolled out with its outspread wings and its head high and haughty, they gave a final dash at one another and rushed off to get wheelbarrow and stick horses. They were well trained—shamefully well trained in the game of cheating.
Johnny looked at them glumly, with an aversion born of their uncanny obedience, their unchildlike shrewdness. Fine conspirators they would make later on, when they grew a few years older and more cunning!
“Head her into the wind so I can take the air right away quick,” he ordered Cliff, and helped swing the Thunder Bird round.
Dusk was settling upon the very heels of a sunset that had no clouds to glorify and therefore dulled and darkened quickly into night, as is the way of sunsets in the southern rim of States.
Already the shadows were deep against the hill, and in the deepest stood the Thunder Bird, slim, delicately sturdy, every wire taut, every bit of aluminum in her motor clean and shining, a gracefully potent creature of the air. Across her back her name was lettered crudely, blatantly, with the blobbed period where Johnny had his first mental shock of Sudden’s changed attitude toward him.
While he pulled on his leather helmet and tied the flaps under his chin, and buttoned his leather coat and pulled on his gloves, Johnny stood off and eyed the Thunder Bird with wistful affection. She was going into the night for the first time, going into danger, perhaps into annihilation. She might never fly again! He went up and laid a hand caressingly on her slanted propeller, just as he used to stroke the nose of his horse Sandy before a hard ride.
“Good old Thunder Bird! Good old Mile High! You’ve got your work cut out for yuh tonight, old girl. Go to it—eat it up.”
He slid his hand down along the blade’s edge and whispered, “It’s you and me for it, old girl. You back my play like a good girl, and we’ll give ’em hell!”
He stepped back, catching Cliff’s eye as Cliff took a last puff at his cigarette before grinding it under his heel.
“Thought I saw a crack in the blade,” Johnny gruffly explained his action. “It was the way the light struck. All right; turn her over, and we’ll go.”
He climbed in while Cliff went to the propeller. Never before had Johnny felt so keenly the profanation of Cliff’s immaculate, gloved hands on his beloved Thunder Bird.
“Never mind, old girl. His time’s short—or ours is,” he muttered while he tested his controls. “All right—contact!” he called afterwards, and Cliff, with a mighty pull, set the propeller whirling and climbed hastily into his place.
The kiddies, grouped close to watch the Thunder Bird’s flight, blinked and turned their faces from the dust storm kicked up by the exhaust. The plane shook, ran forward faster and faster, lifted its little wheels off the ground and went whirring away toward the dark blur of the mountains that rimmed the southern edge of the valley.
Johnny circled twice, getting sufficient altitude to clear the hills, then flew straight for the border. In the dark Cliff would not know the difference between one thousand feet and five thousand, and Johnny wanted to save his gas. He even shut off his motor and glided down to one thousand before he had passed the line, and picked up again and held the Thunder Bird steady, regardless of the droning hum, that would shout its passing to those below.
“Isn’t this rather low?” Cliff turned his head to shout.
Johnny did not read suspicion in his voice, but vague uneasiness lest the trip be brought to a sudden halt.
“It’s all right. They can’t do anything but listen to us go past. I’ve got to keep my landmarks.”
Cliff leaned and peered below, evidently satisfied with the explanation. A minute later he was fussing with the flare he meant to set off for a signal, and Johnny was left free to handle the plane and do a little more of that thinking for which he was not paid.
The night sky was wonderful, a deep translucent purple studded with stars that seemed closer, more humanly intimate than when seen from earth even in the higher altitudes. The earth was shadowy, remote, with now a growing brightness as the moon slid up into sight. Before its light touched the earth the Thunder Bird was bathed in its glow. Cliff’s profile emerged clear-cut from the dusk as he gazed toward the east. Johnny, too, glanced that way, but he was not thinking then of the wonderful effect of the rising moon upon the drifting world below. He was wondering just why this trip tonight should be so important to Cliff.
It would not be the first time that Johnny had gone ahead with his eyes shut, but that is not saying he would not have preferred travelling with them open. His lips were set so stubbornly that the three tiny dimples appeared in his chin,—his stubborn-mule chin, Mary V had once called it,—and his eyes were big and round and solemn. Mary V seeing him then would surely have asked herself, “What, for gracious sake, is Johnny up to now?”
But Mary V was not present, and Cliff Lowell was fully absorbed in his own thoughts and purposes; wherefore Johnny’s ominous expression went unnoticed.
In the moonlight the notched ridge showed clear, and toward it the Thunder Bird went booming steadily, as ducks fly south with the first storm wind of November. A twinkling light just under the notch showed that Cliff’s allies were at home, whether they expected him or not. Johnny veered slightly, pointing the Thunder Bird’s nose straight toward the light.
Cliff half turned, handing something back over his shoulder.
“Can you drop this for me, old man, when we are almost over the hacienda? The fuse is lighted, and I’m afraid I might heave it on to the wing and set us afire.”
Johnny heard only about half of what Cliff was saying, but he understood what was wanted and took the bomb-like contraption and balanced it in his hand. Cliff had said rockets, but this thing was not like any rocket Johnny had ever seen. Some new aerial signal bomb, he guessed it, and thought how thoroughly up-to-date Cliff was in all his tools of trade.
He poised the thing on the edge of the cockpit, waited until they were rather close, and then gave it a toss overboard. For a few seconds nothing happened. Than, halfway to the ground a great blob of red light burst dazzlingly, lighting the adobe building with a crimson glow that floated gently earthward, suspended from its little parachute.
Cliff handed back another, and Johnny heaved it away from the plane. It flared white; the third one, dropped almost before the door of the main building, revealed three men standing there gazing upward, their faces weird in its bluish glare. Red, white and blue—a signal used sacrilegiously here, he thought.
Johnny circled widely and came back to find the landing place lighted by torches of some kind. He was not interested in details, and what they were he did not know or care. The landing was marked for him plainly, though he scarcely needed it with the moon riding now above the low rim of hills.
He came down gently, and Cliff, remembering to give Johnny his money, climbed out hurriedly to meet the florid gentleman who had never yet failed to appear when the Thunder Bird landed. Johnny did not know his name, for Cliff had never mentioned it. The two never talked together in his presence, but strolled away where even their voices would not reach him, or went inside the adobe house and stayed there until Cliff was ready to return. News gathering, as Johnny saw the news gathered, seemed to be mighty secret business, never to be mentioned save in a whisper.
Th
e florid gentleman came strolling toward them through the moonlight, smoking a big, fat cigar whose aroma reminded Johnny of something disagreeable, like burning rubbish. Tonight the florid gentleman’s stroll did not seem to match his face, which betrayed a suppressed excitement in spite of the fat cigar. He reached out, caught Cliff’s arm, and turned back toward the house, forgetting all about his stroll as soon as he began to speak. He forgot something else, for Johnny distinctly heard a sentence or two not meant for his ears.
“I’ve put it through all right. I got them to sign with the understanding that they don’t turn a hand till you bring the money. You can take—”
That was all, for even on that still night the florid gentleman’s voice receded quickly to an unintelligible mumbling. They went inside, and the door closed. Johnny and the Thunder Bird were once more shut out from their conference.
Johnny spied a Mexican who was leaning against the wall of a smaller building, smoking and staring pensively across the moonlighted plain toward that portion of the United States where the Potreros hunched themselves up against the stars.
“Bring me some gas, you!” he called peremptorily.
The Mexican pulled his gaze away from the vista that had held him hypnotized and straightened his lank form reluctantly. From a bench near by he picked up a square kerosene can of the type made internationally popular by a certain oil trust, inspected it to see if the baling-wire handle would hold the weight of four gallons of gasoline, and sauntered to a shed under which a red-leaded iron drum lay on a low scaffold of poles. A brass faucet was screwed into the hole for a faucet. He turned it listlessly, watched the gasoline run in a sparkling stream the size of his finger, went off into a moon-dream until the oil can was threatening to run over, and then shut off the stream at its source. He picked up the can with the air of one whose mind is far distant, came like a sleepwalker to where Johnny waited, set the can down, and turned apathetically to retrace his steps to where he could lean again.