The B. M. Bower Megapack

by B. M. Bower

  “Say, I know what ailed them squaws, Bland. Gods is right. You know what they thought? They took us for their Thunder Bird lighting. I’ll bet they’re making medicine right now, trying to appease the Bird’s wrath. And say, listen here, Bland. If they do come at us, all we’ve got to do is start up and buzz at ’em. There ain’t an Injun on earth could face that.”

  Bland lifted a pasty face from his work. “Fat chance,” he lamented. “You’d oughta brought your gun. Back there at Sinkhole you was damn generous with the artillery—there where you had no use for it. Now you fly into Injun country without so much as a sharp idea. Bo, you give me a pain!”

  Johnny spied an Indian peering fearfully out from the branches of a willow. He ducked behind the motor and hissed the news to Bland. Bland nearly fell from his perch.

  “Gawd!” he gasped, clinging to a strut while he stared fascinatedly in the direction Johnny had indicated. “Git in, bo, and we’ll beat it. She may have power enough to hop us outa this death trap. We can come down somewheres else.” He clawed back and climbed in feverishly.

  Johnny emitted a convulsive snort. “Death trap” sounded very funny, applied to this particular bit of harmless landscape. Behind him, Bland was imploring him to hurry, and Johnny climbed in.

  “You let me pilot the thing,” he ordered. “I know Injuns. I still have hopes of saving our lives, Bland. We’ll scare ’em to death. We’ll be their Thunder Bird for ’em. Now lemme tell yuh, before we start—oh, we’re safe for the present. They’ll stutter some before they attack us in here—say, good golly, Bland! Is that your teeth chattering? Hold your jaws still, can’t yuh, while I tell yuh what we’ll do?”

  “F’r cat’s sake, hurry! I seen another one peekin’ around the corner of the house!”

  “Now listen, Bland. The Navajos have got a Thunder Bird mixed up in their religion, and I guess maybe these Injuns will have, too. If so, we are reasonably safe. They must not know we’re plain human—we’ve got to be gods come down to earth, and this is the Thunder Bird. Or another kind of bird. We’ll make ’em think that. They don’t sabe flying machines—see? And we’ll find out where they’re all at, and fly low over their heads to convince them that didn’t see us come down. It’ll scare ’em, and work on their superstition, so when we come down again to locate that motor trouble, they’ll stand in awe of us long enough to give us time to get in shape. You leave the soaring to me, Bland. I’ll pull us through all right. Think she’ll lift us off the ground?”

  “She’s gotta lift us!” Bland chattered. “She’s runnin’ better since we landed. And say, bo, don’t go any closer to them—”

  Johnny told him to shut up; he was running things. Whereupon he circled and taxied back down the field, thankful that the soil was sun-baked and hard. The motor ran smoothly again—a fact which Bland was too scared to notice. He gasped when Johnny turned back toward the huts, but beyond a protesting look over his shoulder he gave no sign of dissent.

  They started to climb, got fifty feet from the ground and the motor began to spit and pop again. Then it stalled completely, and they came down and went bouncing over the uneven surface and stopped again, a rod or so nearer the willows than before.

  Several scuttling figures left that particular hiding place like rabbits scared out of a covert, and Bland took heart again. A few minutes he spent crouched down in the cockpit, watching the willows, and when nothing happened he ventured forth, armed with pliers and wrench, and went at the motor.

  “Sounds to me like poor contact,” he diagnosed the trouble. “Like the breaker-points are roughened, maybe. You’ll have to work the gawd stuff, bo, and work it right. Because if I start tearing into the hull ignition system, we ain’t going to be able to hop outa here at a minute’s notice, nor even start the motor and buzz at ’em.”

  “Fly at it,” said Johnny, eyeing the huts speculatively. He was hungry, and certain odors floated to his nostrils. Something left cooking over a fire was beginning to scorch, if his nose told the truth, and it seemed a shame to let food burn when his stomach clamored to be filled.

  With Bland watching him nervously, he crossed the little open space and entered the hut nearest, presently emerging with two flat cakes in his hand. Another hut yielded a pot of stew which he thought it wise not to analyze too closely. It was this which had begun to burn, but it was still fairly palatable. So, with a can of water from a muddy spring, they breakfasted, their hunger charitably covering much distrust and dulling for the time even Bland’s fear of the place.

  The sun, shining its Arizona fiercest though the season was early fall, brought a cooked-varnish smell from the wings. There was no shade save the scant shadow which the scraggly willows and brush cast over the edge of the parched field, and of that Bland refused to avail himself. He would rather roast, he said.

  Johnny conscientiously carried the kettle back to the hut, then set to work helping Bland. Which help consisted mainly of turning the propeller whenever Bland wanted to start the motor; a heartbreaking task in that broiling heat, especially since the motor half the time would not start at all. Crimson, the perspiration streaming down his cheeks like tears, Johnny swung on that propeller until Bland’s grating voice singing out “Contact!” stirred murder within his soul and he balked with the motor and crawled under a wing.

  “Yon can start her yourself if you want to start,” he growled when Bland expostulated. “I’ve turned that darned propeller enough to fly from here to New York. Why don’t you get in and locate the trouble?”

  “There ain’t any trouble—not according to the look of things. Acts like water in the gas, or something. F’r cat’s sake, don’t lay down on the job now, bo! We gotta beat it outa here.”

  “I’m ready to go any time you are,” Johnny retorted, mopping neck and chest while he lay sprawled on his back. “But I’d rather stay here till Christmas than get sun-struck trying to start, I’m all in.”

  Bland could not budge him and swore voluminously while he worked over the motor. Finally he too gave up and crawled under a wing where the heat was not quite so unendurable, and tried to think of something he had not done but which he might do to correct the motor trouble. No Indians having been sighted since their second landing, he could push his fear of them into the back of his mind until a dark face peered out at him again.

  Miles away to the west men were sweating while they rode, searching for this very airplane that sat so placidly in the midst of an Indian corn field. Farther away the news went humming along the wires, of a young aviator lost with his airplane on the desert. The fame of that young aviator was growing apace while he lay there, casually wishing there was a telephone handy so he could call up Mary V and tell her he had a plan which might make him big money without his having to sell his plane.

  Not once did it occur to him that any one would be especially concerned over his absence. Not once did he look upon this mishap as anything more serious than an unpleasant incident in the life of a flyer. He went to sleep, lying there under a wing of his plane, and presently Bland himself drifted off into dreams that would have been much less agreeable had he known that a full two dozen Indians had crawled into the willows and were peering timorously out at them.

  It was past noon when Bland awoke. Johnny was still sound asleep, snoring a little now and then. Bland grumbled more profanity, sent a questing glance toward the willows and saw nothing to alarm him, crawled out into the searing sunlight and tried to work. But the motor was so hot he could not touch it anywhere. His pliers and wrenches were too hot to hold, and his face felt scorched where the sun fell upon it. So Bland crawled back again and cursed the land that knew such heat, and himself for being in it, and presently slept again.

  Hunger woke Johnny at last, and he straight-way woke Bland, politely intimating that it was about time he got busy and did something. Johnny did not propose to settle down for life in that neighborhood, he pointed out. There must be something they could do, if the darned engine wasn’t broken anywhere.


  Bland, too miserable to argue, sat up and pushed greasy fingers through his lank hair. Having remained alive and unharmed for so long in that neighborhood, his faith in Johnny’s knowledge of Indians waxed stronger. He began to think less of his danger and more about the motor.

  The thing mystified him, who could tear a motor apart and put it together again. What he felt he ought to do was impossible for lack of the proper tools, Johnny’s emergency kit being quite as useless for any real emergency as such kits usually are. Merely as an experiment he removed the needle valve and washed several specks of dirt off it with gasoline. Without hesitation the motor started, and Bland cursed himself quite sincerely for not having sooner thought of the simple expedient. He must be getting feeble-minded, he said, while he adjusted the mixture and made ready to fly.

  Once more they taxied down the denuded corn field, turned and ascended buoyantly, boring into the hot breeze that rose as the shadows lengthened into late afternoon. They circled, climbing steadily. Then pop—pop-pop-pop—pop, the motor began to stutter. The earth lifted to them as if pulled up by a string. They could see more huts and tiny figures running like disturbed ants. The field where they had spent most of the day broadened beneath them, like a brown blanket spread to receive them.

  They came down with a jolt that bent the axle of the landing gear, sent them bounding into the air, and all but wrecked them. They went ducking and wobbling up to the willow fringe and swung off just in time to escape plunging into a deep little creek. As they stopped they heard a great crackling of brush and glimpsed many forms fleeing wildly, but they were too engrossed in their own trouble to be greatly impressed. One wing had barely escaped damage with the tilting of the machine, and the near-catastrophe chilled them both with the memory of a certain other forced landing which had not ended so harmlessly. They climbed down soberly and inspected the landing gear.

  “Well, that can be fixed,” Bland stated in the tone of one who is grateful that worse has not befallen. “I’ll say it was a close shave, though, bo.”

  “I’ll try and straighten the axle, while you see what ails that cussed motor. Good golly! We’ll be here all night at this rate. And if we keep on hopping over this field like a lame crow, we’ll be plumb outa gas. For a mechanic that can make a motor, Bland, you sure ain’t making much of a showing!”

  “Aw, f’r cat’s sake, lay off the crabbing! Gimme the tools and I’ll rip your damn motor apart so quick it’ll make your head swim! I’ll say I’ve tied into a sweet mess of trouble when I tied up with you. I mighta knowed I’d git the worst of it. Look at what I was handed the other time I throwed in with you! Got stuck in a cave and had to live like a darned animal, and double-crossed when I’d helped you outa the hole you was in. And now you wish this job on to me and begin to lay the blame on me when this mess of junk fails to act like a motor. Come off down here with a monkey wrench and a can opener and expect me to rebuild a motor that oughta been junked ten year ago!”

  “Aw, shut up!” snapped Johnny, and stalked off to find something they could eat. “Monkey wrench and can opener are about as many tools as you know how to use—unless maybe it’s a corkscrew.”

  He went on, muttering because he had ever let himself be imposed upon by Bland Halliday. Muttering too because he had started out that morning to do stunts, instead of trying to find a buyer for the machine as he had first planned. Now the prospect of getting back to Tucson that night looked very remote indeed. And the winning of a fortune doing exhibition work looked even more remote. “Unless we take up a collection amongst the Injuns cached out in the brush,” he grinned ruefully to himself. “We’re liable to take up a collection all right, if we have to sleep here—but it won’t be money.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  FAME WAITS UPON JOHNNY

  That day was a terrible one for Mary V. The big car went lurching here and there over roads that never expected an automobile to travel them, and Mary V watched and hoped and would not give up when even her dad showed signs of yielding to heat and discouragement.

  Before noon they had met the sheriff and some of his men, and had compared notes and given what information they could. The sheriff, in a desert-scarred Ford loaded mostly with water and some emergency rations, had managed to scatter his men and yet keep in fairly close touch with them, and he seemed very sure that the search had been thorough as far as they had gone. Young Jewel, he asserted, had not so much as dropped a handkerchief on the ground they had covered, or his men would certainly have found it.

  This, while it served as a temporary relief from the dread of hearing the worst, merely postponed the full knowledge of a disaster which Mary V could not bear to contemplate. They drove to a rendezvous previously agreed upon with Bill Hayden and gleaned what news the boys had to tell. Which was no news at all. Their search had been as barren of results as the sheriff’s, and Mary V’s eyes, when they turned from face to face, were hard to meet. Little Curley, who had been Johnny Jewel’s especial admirer and champion when that youth was spending his days more or less tumultuously at the Rolling R Ranch, was seen to draw his shirt sleeve hastily across his eyes after he had confronted Mary V for a minute’s questioning.

  She watched with painful interest a car that came bouncing toward them over the rough trail they had taken. When it arrived their fears might become a terrible certainty. Two men occupied the dusty roadster, and neither was Johnny, and their haste implied great urgency. Mary V weakened to the point of covering her face with her hands as they drew near. But they were merely reporters anxious for news.

  That afternoon other reporters appeared, and the next day an enterprising motion-picture concern had a camera man on the job. The mystery of the vanished airplane grew with the passing hours. The desert fairly swarmed with men, and theories were thick as lizards. On the second night beacon fires were burning on every hilltop, and water was being hauled in barrels to certain rest stations where the searchers could come and recuperate. Old Sudden achieved some front-page fame himself as a stalwart Napoleon of the desert—which he profanely resented, by the way.

  On the third day Mary V was ordered to stay at home. There were reasons which her father did not care to dwell upon, which made it extremely undesirable that the girl should be present when her lover was discovered. And, since the search had narrowed to a point where discovery was practically certain within a few hours, Sudden was not to be cajoled or bullied.

  Mary V was lying on the porch, wondering dully when the nightmare would end and she would wake up and find life just as it had always been, with Johnny alive and full of fun and ready to argue with her over every little thing. It seemed grotesquely impossible that her own innocent command that he come to her should result in all this horror.

  Upheld at first by a frenzied hope that they should find him, she now dreaded the finding, and refused to reckon the time since she had last heard his voice over the telephone. Hurt and without water or food on the desert in all that heat—she set her teeth to stifle a groan. A little while ago when he had been so sure that he could enlist as a flyer, she had shrunk from the thought of his going to war. Before that, when he had lain unconscious for so many days there in the bedroom behind her; when a trained nurse had stood guard and would not let Mary V so much as look at Johnny, and the doctor had spoken glibly of hope, when his eyes told her how little hope there was, she had suffered terribly. She had thought that she had touched the depths of worry over Johnny—and she had not begun to know the meaning of the word.

  She lay a small, huddled heap of heartache, shrinking from her own thoughts, shrinking from the sight of every one, dazed with terror of what she might hear if any one spoke. Into this nightmare jingled the telephone bell. Mary V gave a faint scream and put her hands over her ears.

  “There, there, baby—I’ll answer it,” her mother’s voice came soothingly, and Mary V shrank farther down in the hammock cushions.

  “Oh—why—land alive! Just a minute—hold the line,” she heard her mother say
in a strange, flustered voice. Then she called, “Mary V—I guess you better come and—”

  “Oh, I—can’t, mommie! I’ll go crazy if I have to hear—”

  “There, there, baby, it’s something you want to hear!”

  Mary V’s knees shook under her as she went to the telephone. Her voice was pinched and feeble when she tried to call the stereotyped hello.

  “Oh, hello, Mary V. That you? I just got in, and I thought I’d better call up. I hear they’re out looking for me—”

  Mary V’s eyes turned glassy. She made a faint sound and drooped forward until her forehead rested on the table. The receiver slid soundlessly into her lap and lay there while Johnny Jewel rattled on hurriedly.

  “—And so after that happened, we were held up till dark getting the landing gear straightened out. And of course we couldn’t fly very well after dark. And then next morning, after Bland had cleaned out the carburetor—say, it was straight mud in there and the screen was packed solid, so of course she didn’t get gas half the time, and that’s what ailed her—and when we did start, or was going to start, we found out there wasn’t enough gas in the tank to take us home. So I had to catch an Injun and make him take a note to the nearest station for gas, and wait till he got back with some. I’d have sent word on to you, but I was in such a darned hurry I forgot—and the Injuns were all scared stiff, and it was only by making them understand I wanted water for the Bird, and nothing else would do.”

  “Mary V’s fainted,” mommie interrupted him then. “I guess it was too sudden, hearing you on the wire when she thought you was dead. You better wait and call up after awhile when her mind’s more settled. She’s had an awful hard time. I’m real glad you’re all right, Johnny, but I’ve got to take care of Mary V now.”

  Johnny’s eyes were very wide open when he came out of the telephone booth in the hotel lobby. That Mary V should faint when she heard his voice sounded rather incredible, but it seemed to confirm the strange intent looks and the flustered manners of every one around that hotel. People seemed to be flocking in from the street and from other parts of the hotel, and that they were gathering to gaze upon him, Johnny Jewel, came with a shock.