The Golden Angel

by Gilbert, Morris

  “How did I do?” she asked.

  Quaid saw from her sparkling eyes that she was in need of assurance. “You did fine. Couldn’t have been better.” He watched as she pulled her helmet off and the summer breeze ruffled her blond hair. “It was so much fun!” she exclaimed, almost ready to break into a cheer.

  “Well, you’re a stunt pilot. We just have to work on some new stunts now.”

  As the two turned away from one another, Erin was intercepted by a tall woman with red hair and green eyes. “You did a fine job, Miss Winslow.”

  “Why, thank you. It was my first time, you know.”

  “So I understand.” The woman put her hand out and gave her a brilliant smile. “We have the same name. I am Jo Winslow. Some people still call me Josephine Hellinger—my maiden name.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Winslow, I’ve read so many of your stories! I’m so glad to meet you.”

  “I’m happy to hear it. I saw in the paper that you’d be here, and I decided to do a story on air shows and stunt flying. Would you be willing to let me interview you?”

  “Why—yes, of course, but really you need to talk to my partner, Quaid Merritt.”

  “I want to talk to him, too.” Jo started to speak, but then a tall man approached them, and she said quickly, “I want you to meet a good friend of mine. This is Revelation Brown—better know as Rev. Rev, I’d like for you to meet a member of the Winslow tribe, Miss Erin Winslow.”

  Erin found her hand swallowed by the man’s enormous paw. He had merry blue eyes, and his face was squelched down with his nose almost touching his chin, it seemed. He was long and gangly and reminded her faintly of a spider.

  “Proud to know you, Miss Winslow,” he said, shaking her hand vigorously. “Are you saved by the blood of the Lamb?”

  Startled, Erin could only stare at him, and then she nodded, “Yes, I am.”

  “That’s good. Always glad to meet a fellow pilgrim.”

  Jo was amused at the girl’s reaction. “Rev always asks the same question. I believe he’d ask the president of the United States that if he met him.”

  “Why, of course I would! The president needs savin’ just like the rest of us sinners.”

  “Is your real name Revelation?” Erin asked.

  “Sure is. Yes, ma’am, my dad was a nonconformist preacher back in England. That’s where I was born. He loved the book of Revelation, so he named me after it.”

  “I never met anybody with a name like that.” Erin smiled.

  Rev was accustomed to this response. “I had two brothers,” he mentioned. “One named Dedication and one named Incarnation.”

  Erin shot a quick glance at Jo. “Is he making that up?”

  “No, he’s not, and he has three sisters. If you think his brothers’ names are odd, wait until you hear his sisters’ names.”

  “Yep. My three sisters were named Incense, Praise, and Blessing. I always liked them names myself.”

  Erin imagined that this tall man offended some people with his direct, evangelistic approach, yet she couldn’t help liking him. At that moment Quaid came over, and she said quickly, “Quaid, this is Mrs. Jo Winslow, the famous journalist—and a member of my family, I might add. May I introduce Quaid Merritt, Mrs. Winslow?”

  “I’m glad to know you, Quaid. Just call me Jo, if you don’t mind. This is my friend Rev Brown.”

  Quaid took the hand that was offered him and opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Rev Brown said, “Pleased to know you, brother. Are you on the Glory Road?”

  “Don’t be embarrassed, Quaid,” Erin said. “Rev asks everyone that question.”

  A strange expression had crossed Quaid’s face at Brown’s abrupt question, and he did not answer directly, saying only, “I’m glad to meet you.”

  “Mrs. Winslow, I mean Jo, wants to do a story on air shows. She wants to interview us.”

  Quaid turned to face the woman and nodded. “That would be fine,” he said.

  “I understand you flew a fighter plane in the war. I wonder if you ever met my husband. His name is Lance Winslow.”

  “No, I never had the pleasure of meeting Captain Winslow, but I heard a great deal about him.” Quaid turned to Erin and said, “I had no idea that you were related to him, Erin. Seems like you have some famous people in your family.” Then addressing Jo Winslow again, he said, “Fine pilot, your husband. Is he here?”

  “No, he’s in England. We make our home there for the most part. I come back home fairly often to visit and do some writing.”

  “Your flyin’ is plumb good, both of you,” Rev smiled. “You got good airplanes there.”

  “Well, the one I’m flying has developed some kind of a glitch,” said Quaid. “I don’t know what it is, and the mechanic can’t find it.”

  “Mind if I have a look at it?” Brown asked instantly.

  “He was the best airplane mechanic there was during the war,” Jo spoke up. “Now he’s doing some flying of his own, but he’s still a great mechanic.”

  “That’s a good enough recommendation for me,” Quaid said. “I’d appreciate it if you’d have a look, Rev.”

  “Let me take some pictures before you do that,” Jo said quickly. “Wait right here while I get my camera.”

  For the next thirty minutes Jo snapped photographs of both fliers, but mostly of Erin. When she was through, Jo smiled. “Why don’t you and I go someplace where we can have tea, Erin, and I can take notes?”

  “Will that be all right, Quaid?” Erin asked.

  “Go right along. We’ll join you as soon as we look this ship over.”

  The two women left, and Quaid took Brown with him to listen to the engine. He explained the problem and then stood by while Brown listened intently, laying his hand on the plane and seeming to feel the operation of the aircraft. Finally he said, “I think maybe I can help you. If you’ll shut her down, we’ll see.”

  “All right.” Quaid shut the airplane engine off, and Brown removed the cowling. His hands moved over the engine with an obvious love.

  “Sure do love these airplanes,” he murmured.

  “Did you fly in the war, Rev?”

  “Nope. Somethin’ I picked up later. But I was a mechanic for another of the Winslow clan—a man related to them through marriage—Logan Smith.”

  “You mean Cowboy Smith?”

  “Yep—that’s him. Do you know him?”

  “I never met him, but everybody’s heard of him. He’s a great pilot. I sure didn’t know he was related to any Winslows!”

  “Oh, they’re one big clan, to be shore. Logan married a French girl—Danielle Laurent. Mighty sweet young lady.”

  Before long their discussion of the Winslow clan turned back to talking about planes. Quaid had been apprehensive that the gangling mechanic might pressure him about religion, but as Brown spoke cheerfully about plane engines, Quaid relaxed. “You knew Miss Hellinger—Mrs. Winslow, that is—during the war?”

  “Shore did. We all went over together, me and Logan and her. Me and Logan joined the Foreign Legion. We were in a French flying unit of American volunteers called the Lafayette Escadrille. Jo went over to take pictures and write about the war.”

  “I read her stories. She was one correspondent who made sense.”

  “She does that, all right,” Rev nodded. “Now, let’s start her up again and see how she goes.”

  As the two men worked on the plane, Erin sat with Jo at a table in the café near the airfield. She found herself giving details of her life, and Jo wrote as fast as she could. “And you actually killed a lion with a spear!” she exclaimed, staring at the blond girl with something like awe.

  “Not really. I’ve got a picture of it that I brought with me and some other things, but I didn’t kill the lion. Nbuta and the other warriors did that. I just wounded him a little—made him mad.”

  Jo smiled and tapped her chin with her pen. “You’re going to make good copy,” she said. “The country’s going airplane crazy now, and for a b
eautiful blond girl who’s killed lions with spears to suddenly come out of Africa! This’ll be an easy story to write.”

  “Oh, but that wouldn’t be right!” Erin exclaimed. “It’s Quaid who’s done it all.”

  “Did he teach you to fly?”

  “No. Another man I knew back in Africa did that. But Quaid taught me all I know about stunt flying. We couldn’t be doing it if it wasn’t for him. And he was a hero, too, like your husband and Logan Smith.”

  “Do you suppose we could go to your room and I could borrow that picture and any others you have of your past?”

  “I suppose so, but what about Quaid?”

  “Oh, I’ll be interviewing him as soon as they get here. Now, tell me more about yourself, Erin. Anything you can think of . . .”

  ****

  Jo stood in front of her editor, Ed Kovak, speaking with a great deal of animation. Kovak was a large, strongly built man with a square face, piercing brown eyes, and black hair that was thinning on the crown. A cigar grew from his mouth, and few people saw him without it. Clouds of purple smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, and as he listened there was pride in his eyes for this young woman who had risen to the top of her profession. He felt partly responsible for that and often boasted that he had made Jo Hellinger what she was as a writer.

  “ . . . and it’s going to be a great story, Ed,” Jo said. She fished around in a folder and handed him a photo. “Look at that.”

  Ed took the picture and said, “A lion! Did she kill it?”

  “She says she just helped, but we don’t have to stress that too much,” Jo said demurely. “Look how young she is. She told me a lot about her growing-up years. The Masai practically raised her. She even drank that awful drink of theirs—milk mixed with fresh cow’s blood.” She shuddered. “I don’t see how she did it.”

  Ed just shook his head and looked at the photo again. “She’s a good-looking woman.”

  “Much better looking now. Most beautiful blond hair you’ve ever seen. And look at this clipping, Ed,” Jo added. She handed him a clipping she had run across from the Peoria Star. The headline said, “Golden Angel Rescues Downed Pilot.”

  The editor skimmed the story and said, “This will make great copy, all right.”

  “It’s even better than that. Her partner is a man named Quaid Merritt. He was an ace in the war. Shot down eleven planes, I think it was, and a good-looking fellow. I took enough pictures to write ten stories.”

  Kovak chewed on the cigar and nodded. “Sounds like a winner. Nothing much else is happening right now. We’ll do this up big.”

  ****

  When Erin went to the airstrip the next day with Quaid to do the show, she found Rev Brown there. It was early, so she went with him to get a cup of coffee. They strolled over to Charlie Herendeen’s stand, and when Herendeen took the money from Rev, he got the usual question. “I trust you’re walkin’ with the Lord today, brother.”

  “I’m not walkin’ at all!” Charlie grinned up from his wheelchair, expecting the man to be embarrassed at such a gaffe.

  However, Rev simply shook his head and smiled broadly. “Well, you can walk in the spirit. It doesn’t take legs for that.”

  “That’s right. Are you a preacher of some kind?”

  “No, just a mechanic who loves Jesus.”

  “So do I,” Herendeen said. “I lost faith when I lost my legs, but I found it again.” He turned to get a paper and spread it out. “Seen this yet, Miss Erin? You and Quaid got quite a write-up.”

  “Mrs. Winslow did that. I’m sure she’s made me much grander than I really am,” Erin said, laughing.

  “Yeah? Well, I think after people read this, the stands will be filled today.”

  Brown talked for some time with Herendeen while Erin read the article, and then he and Erin started back. She said, “I think it’s wonderful the way you can just talk to anybody about the Lord. My dad’s like that. His name’s Barney Winslow. He’s a missionary in Africa.”

  “Well, I’m plumb proud to be just a servant of the Lord. The joy just bubbles up,” Rev said.

  They were in sight of Quaid, who was standing beside the plane talking to one of the attendants. Brown said, “Your partner’s kind of mixed up, ain’t he?”

  Quickly Erin shot a glance at him. “What do you mean by that, Rev?”

  “Well, I mean he’s runnin’ from God. I seen it in him right off. A nice fellow, but he needs Jesus.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid you’re right,” Erin said quietly. “I’ve tried to talk to him, but he always builds a wall between us.”

  “That’s the way folks do who are runnin’ from God. Sometimes they get mad; sometimes they get embarrassed. But whatever it is, they just keep on runnin’. I have a favorite poem about how God chases people. It’s called ‘The Hound of Heaven.’ ” Rev slowed his pace, and Erin adjusted her steps as the mechanic went on. “It says God’s like a big bloodhound, and He gets on some sinner’s trail and He won’t quit, not until He catches him.”

  “I suppose you can think of God like that,” Erin said. “I’m worried about Quaid. He had a hard time after the war. He took to drinking and still has a problem with it.”

  “Well, he needs to give all that to Jesus. Can’t overcome sin all by our lonesome. We need the healing power of God in our lives first.”

  Erin nodded in agreement, then pointed up ahead. “Look at the size of that crowd. There’ve never been that many people here before,” she said.

  When she got close she was suddenly approached by a group of men, some of them with note pads and pencils, some with cameras. “Hey, you’re the Golden Angel, aren’t you?”

  Erin found herself surrounded by the reporters, who kept snapping her picture and popping questions at her. “Did you really kill that lion?” “How’d you take up flying?” “Do you ever get afraid up there?”

  She fielded the questions as best she could, and then Quaid suddenly appeared, elbowing his way through the crowd of pushy journalists. “That’s it, fellows. We’ve got to take off now. It’s time for us to do our stuff.”

  “We want an interview after the show,” one of the reporters called out. He lifted his camera and took a picture of Quaid and Erin.

  “Come on,” Quaid said to Erin, taking her arm and heading toward the planes. “We’ve got to hurry.”

  ****

  The reporters were waiting after Erin and Quaid had done their act. The fliers were no sooner out of the plane than the two were surrounded again. There was more picture-taking, and a great many questions were thrown at them.

  During the entire interview Erin kept trying to bring Quaid into it, pointing out that he was the war hero and the one who had taught her to stunt fly. There was some interest, but basically they were interested in her.

  Finally the two walked away, and they were met by Rev Brown, who grinned and said, “Can I get your autograph?”

  “Oh, shut up, Rev!” Quaid said irritably.

  “Don’t bark at him, Quaid. It was kind of fun.”

  “I suppose so. It’ll be good publicity, anyhow. It was by far the biggest crowd we’ve had.”

  Rev said abruptly, “I’d like to come and work with you two.”

  “Work with us? What do you mean?” Quaid demanded.

  “Not much interested in money, but I can keep them planes in tip-top shape for you, and I fly myself. So if you ever decide that you need an extra pilot, maybe I can help with that, too.”

  “Oh, that would be wonderful, Rev!” Erin exclaimed. “But we can’t pay much. Would it be all right, do you think, Quaid?”

  “We do need help keeping those ships goin’.”

  “Well, don’t worry about the money. Them reporters are loose now. You’re gonna get offers you never even dreamed of. Don’t worry about the money at all,” he said confidently. “It’ll come.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  In the Spotlight

  Dusk had come, and a tawny hue had fallen over the African lan
dscape. All day long the sun had been simply a white hole in the sky pouring down heat, but now the sun retired behind the hills, which seemed in their sullen haze to be brooding with some brutal thought. The earth cooled, and the night sounds began. Barney Winslow stood at the window staring at the moon, thinking how aged and scarred it was, and at a handful of pale stars. The odors of the animals and dust and vegetation growing close to the house wafted to him, and he seemed lost in thought.

  The others gathered around the table included Barney’s brother and sister-in-law, Andrew and Dorothy. Across from them sat their children. Amelia was now a beautiful girl of twenty with auburn hair and green eyes, and her brother, Phillip, two years younger, had the same coloring. At Katie’s insistence Barney turned and left the window. Moving back to the table, he sat down and quietly listened as Amelia and Phillip talked excitedly about the pictures and the newspaper clippings. They had come in the mail two days earlier, and Barney had digested them thoroughly. He was aware that Amelia and Phillip were much more excited about their cousin Erin’s success in her profession than were Andrew and Dorothy.

  “Just look at this from the Times, no less,” Phillip said. His eyes glowed as he picked up one of the clippings. “It’s all about the Golden Angel. Imagine getting into the New York Times! Erin’s really done well for herself.”

  “I don’t see what the lion has to do with anything,” Andrew sniffed. With his forefinger he touched the picture of Erin standing beside the dead lion. His eyes revealed his displeasure, and he shook his head, adding, “Newspapers don’t make a great deal of sense.”

  “But look at this one!” Amelia exclaimed. “Imagine having your picture made with Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford!” She stared at the picture excitedly. “I never get to meet anybody! Who would ever have thought Erin would get to run around with two famous movie stars?”

  “It doesn’t say she’s running around with them,” Barney protested. He was uncomfortable with all this publicity, and now he said, “The story says that the two just attended the air show and stopped by to give their congratulations.”

  “I don’t care! I’d give anything to meet Douglas Fairbanks. He’s so dreamy!”