The B. M. Bower Megapack

by B. M. Bower

  “That ain’t all. Bring me a can of water as fast as you brought the gas. We may want to go back tonight.”

  “Si,” sighed the Mexican and continued to drift away.

  “Don’t be in a hurry. Come and lift the can up to me.”

  The Mexican returned as slowly as he had departed, and picked up the can. Johnny dropped a half dollar into it, whereat the Mexican’s eyes opened a trifle wider.

  “What’s the name of that red-faced friend of Cliff’s?” Johnny asked, taking the can and beginning to pour gas into the Thunder Bird’s tank.

  “Quien sabe?” murmured the listless one.

  Johnny paused, and another coin slipped tinkling into the can.

  “What did you say?”

  The Mexican hesitated. He would like very much to see that other coin. It had sounded heavy—almost as heavy as a dollar. He turned his head and looked attentively at the house.

  “Quien sabe, senor.” The senor he added for sake of the coin he had not seen. “Mucho name, Ah’m theenk.”

  “Think some more.” Johnny poured the last of the gas and caused another clinking sound in the can. The Mexican’s eyes were as wide open now as they would ever be, and he even called a faint smile to his countenance.

  “Some-times—Sawb,” he recollected, and reached for the can.

  “Sawb—What y’mean, Sawb? That’s no name for a man. You mean Schwab?”

  “Si, senor—Sawb.” He glanced again at the house distrustfully, as if he feared even his murmur might be overheard.

  “All right. Get the water now.”

  “Si, senor.” And he went for it at a trot, that he might the sooner investigate the source of those clinking sounds.

  “Schwab! Uhm-hm—he looks it, all right.” He stepped down to the ground, pulled a handful of silver from his pocket and eyed it speculatively, glancing now and then after the receding Mexican. “He’d tell a lot to get it all,” he decided. “He’d tell so much he’d make up about four thirds of it. I guess those birds ain’t taking greasers like him into their secrets, and he’s spilled all he knows when he spilled the fellow’s name. Four bits more will do him fine.” Wealth, you will observe, was inclining Johnny toward parsimoniousness.

  He got the water from the hopeful Mexican, gave him the half dollar and brief thanks, filled the radiator, and waited for Cliff. And in a very few minutes Cliff came out, walking as though he were in a hurry. The florid gentleman stood framed in the doorway, watching him as friendly hosts are wont to gaze after departing guests, out west where guests are few. Like a departing guest Cliff turned for a last word.

  “I’ll be back soon as possible,” he called to the man Schwab. “A little after sunrise, probably. Better wait here for me.”

  Schwab nodded and waved his cigar, and Johnny grinned to himself while he straddled into his seat.

  Cliff went straight to the propeller. “Take me to Los Angeles, old man. You can light where you did before; there won’t be any bean vines in the way this time. I had the Japs clear off and level a strip for a landing. It’s marked off with white flags, so you can easily see it in this moonlight. Luck’s with us; I was afraid we might have to wait until morning, but this is fine. Several hours will be saved.”

  “I’ve got you,” Johnny said—and he did not mean what Cliff thought he meant. “All ready? Contact!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  JOHNNY ACTS BOLDLY

  Off to the right and flying high, two government planes circled slowly over the boundary line. Long before the Thunder Bird had put the map of Mexico behind her the two planes veered that way, their fishlike fuselages and the finned rudders gleaming like silver in the moonlight. Cliff, happening to glance that way, moved uneasily in his seat and cursed the moon he had so lately blessed.

  “Better duck down somewhere; can’t you dodge ’em?” he yelled back at Johnny, who was himself eyeing perturbedly the two swift scouts.

  “You let me handle this. It’s what I’m paid for,” he yelled back, and banked the Thunder Bird sharply to the left. He had not yet crossed the border; until he did so those scouting machines dare not do more than keep him in view. But keeping him in view was absurdly simple in that cloudless sky, white-lighted by the moon.

  To a person looking up from the earth, the situation would have appeared to be simple—a matter of three planes zooming homeward after a long practice flight. The five-pointed star in the black circle, painted on each wing Of the government planes, would probably have been invisible at that height, and the bold lettering of THE THUNDER BIRD indistinguishable also on the shadowed underside of the outlaw plane. To the government planes she was branded irrevocably as they looked down upon her from their superior height. There was no mistaking her, no hope whatever that the scouts might think her anything but the outlaw plane she was, flying in the face of international law, trafficking in treason, fair game if she once crossed the line.

  On she went, boring through the night, heading straight for Tia Juana, which lies just south of the line. Just north of that invisible line her pursuers held doggedly to the course.

  “Turn back,” Cliff turned to shout to Johnny who was driving big-eyed, his lips pursed with the tense purpose that held him to his work. “Turn back and land at the rancho. We’ll never make Los Angeles with those damned buzzards after us. I’ll have to notify Sch—somebody.”

  “Send him a thought message, then.”

  “Turn back when I tell you!” Cliff twisted around as far as his safety belt would permit, that he might glare at Johnny. His tone was the long of stern authority.

  “Can’t be done! The Thunder Bird’s took the bit in her teeth. I’m just riding’ and whippin’ down both sides!” Johnny laughed aloud, Cliff’s tone releasing within him a sudden, reckless mood that gloried in the sport of the chase and forgot for a moment its grim meaning. “Whoo-ee! Go to it, old girl! They gotta go some to put salt on your tail—whoo-ee!”

  “Are you crazy, man? Those are government planes! They’re probably armed. They’ll get us wherever we cross the line—turn back, I tell you! You’re under orders from me, and you’ll fly where I tell you! This is no child’s play, you fool. If they get me with what papers—it’ll be a firing squad for you if they catch you—don’t forget that! Damn you, don’t you realize—”

  “Sit down!” roared Johnny. “And shut up!”

  “I won’t shut up!” Cliff’s eyes, as Johnny saw them facing the moon, looked rather wild. “You’re working for me, and I order you to take me back to Schwab’s. You better obey—it will go as hard with you as it will with me if those planes get in their work. Why, you fool, they—”

  “What the heck do I care about them? I’m working for a bigger man than you are right now. Sit down!”

  “Stop at Tia Juana then and let me out. But I warn you—”

  “Shut up!”

  “I will not! You’ll do as I tell you, or I’ll—”

  “Now will you shut up?” Johnny swung his gun, a heavy, forty-four caliber Colt, of the type beloved of the West. Its barrel came down fairly on the top of Cliff’s leathern helmet and all but cracked his skull. Cliff shut up suddenly and completely, sliding limply down into his seat.

  “By gosh, you had it coming!” Johnny muttered as he settled back into his seat. He had never knocked a man cold before, and his natural soft-heartedness needed bracing. He had let Cliff rave as long as he dared, dreading the alternative. But now that it was done he felt a certain relief to have it over. He could turn his mind wholly to the accomplishment of another feat which would take all his nerve.

  That other thing had looked simple enough in contemplation, but the actual doing of it presented complications. The simplicity of the plan vanished with the sighting of those two scouting planes that persisted in paralleling his course and herding him away from the line he fain would cross.

  Tia Juana with its flat-roofed adobes lay ahead of him now, its lights twinkling like fallen stars. Away off to the right he cou
ld see the blurred lights of San Diego and the phosphorescent gleam of the bay and ocean beyond. Beautiful beyond words was the broad view he got, but its beauty could only vaguely impress him then, though he might later recall it wistfully.

  He looked toward San Diego with longing; looked at the two planes that hounded him, then gazed straight ahead at the ocean. Perhaps they would not follow him beyond their station at North Island. They would maybe circle and come back, watching for his return, or they might keep to the shore line, flying north, and thinking to head him off when he turned inland. At least, he reasoned, that is what he would do if he were following an outlaw plane and saw it head out over the ocean, straight for Honolulu.

  So over Tia Juana he flew and made for the sea like a gull that has flown too far from its nesting place. He watched and saw the two planes spiraling upward, climbing to a higher altitude where it would be easy to dart down at him if he swung north. They suspected that trick, evidently, and were preparing to swoop and follow.

  The beach, pale yellow in the moonlight, with a riffle of white at its edge, slid beneath him. The ocean, heaving gently, rolled under, the moon reflected from its depths.

  Cliff sat slumped down in his seat, his head tilted upon one shoulder. He had not moved nor made a sound, and his limp silence began to worry Johnny. What if he had struck too hard, had killed the man? A little tremor went over him, a prickling of the scalp. Killing Cliff had no part in his plans, would be too horrid a mischance. He wished now that he had left him alone, had let him bluster and threaten. Perhaps Cliff would not have had presence of mind enough to do what Johnny had feared he would do when he saw capture was inevitable: drop overboard what papers he carried that would incriminate him with the United States Federal officers. With empty pockets Cliff would be as free of suspicion as Johnny himself—a mere passenger in a plane that had flown too far south. He would then be fairly safe in assuming that Johnny would never dare to cross the line with him under the eye of those who watched from the sky. It had been the fear of that ruse that had brought Johnny to the point of violence to Cliff’s person, but he was sorry now that he had not risked taking that chance.

  Flying has its inconveniences, after all, for Johnny could not stop to investigate the injury he had done to Cliff. He would have to go on, now that he was started, but the thought that he might be flying with a dead man chilled what enthusiasm he had felt for the adventure.

  On over the ocean he flew until he had passed the three-mile limit which he hazily believed would bar the planes of the government unless they had express orders to follow him out. Looking back, he saw that his hunters seemed content to wheel watchfully along the shore line, and presently he banked around and flew north.

  From the Mexican line to San Diego is not far—a matter of twenty miles or so. Across the mouth of San Diego bay, on the inner shore of which sits the town, North Island stretches itself like a huge alligator lying with its back above water; a long, low, sandy expanse of barrenness that leaves only a narrow inlet between its westernmost tip and the long rocky finger of Point Loma.

  Time was when North Island was given over to the gulls and long-billed pelicans, and San Diego valued it chiefly as a natural bulkhead that made the bay a placid harbor where the great combing rollers could not ride. But other birds came; great, roaring, man-made birds, that rose whirring from its barrenness and startled the gulls until they grew accustomed to the sight and sound of them. Low houses grew in orderly rows. More of the giant birds came. Nowadays the people of San Diego, looking out across the bay, will sometimes look again to make sure whether the sailing object they see is an airplane or only a gull. In time the gull will flap its wings; the airplane never does. All through the day the air is filled with them—gulls and airplanes sharing amicably the island and the air above it.

  Up from the south, with her nose pointed determinedly northward and her rudder set steady as the tail of a frozen fish, the Thunder Bird came humming defiantly, flying swift under the moon. Over San Diego bay, watching through night-glasses the outlaw bird, the two scouting planes dipped steeply toward their nesting place on North Island. Three planes were up with students making practice flights and doing acrobatics by moonlight. These saw one scout go down and land, saw the other circle over the field and climb higher, bearing off toward the mainland to see what the outlaw plane would do.

  The Thunder Bird swung on over the island, banked and came back over Point Loma, heading straight for the heart of the flying station. She was past the finlike reef where the pelicans foregather, when the searchlight brushed its white light over that way, seeking her like a groping finger; found her and transfixed her sternly with its pitiless glare.

  There was no hiding from that piercing gaze, no possibility of pretending that she was a government plane and flying lawfully there. For straight across her middle, from wing-tip to wing-tip, still blazoned THE THUNDER BIRD in letters as bold and black as Bland’s brush and a quart of carriage paint could make them.

  She volplaned, flattened out a thousand feet or so above the island, circled as the searchlight, losing her when she dipped, sought her again with wide sweeping gestures of its accusing white finger.

  Blinded by the glare, poor Johnny was banking to find a landing place among that assemblage of tents, low-eaved barracks, hangars, shops—the city built for the purpose of teaching men how to conquer the air. Something spatted close beside him on the edge of the cockpit as he wheeled and left a ragged hole in the leather. Johnny’s brain registered automatically the fact that he was being shot at. They probably meant that as a hint that he was to clear out or come down, one or the other. Well, if they’d take that darned searchlight out of his eyes so he could see, he would come down fast enough.

  In desperation he slanted down steeply toward an open space, and the open space immediately showed a full border of lights, revealing itself a landing field such as he had read of and dreamed of but had never before seen. It shot up at him swiftly; too swiftly. He came down hard. There was a jolt, a bounce and another jolt that jarred the Thunder Bird from nose to tail.

  After a dazed interval much briefer than it seemed, Johnny unstrapped himself and climbed out unsteadily. He looked fearfully at Cliff, but there was no sign of life there. Cliff’s head had merely tilted from the right shoulder to the left shoulder, and rested there.

  Uniformed young men came trotting up from all sides. Two carried rifles, and their browned faces wore a look of grim eagerness, like men looking forward to a fight. Johnny pushed up his goggles and stared around at them.

  “Where’s your captain or somebody that’s in charge here? I want to see the foreman of this outfit, and I want to see him quick,” he demanded, as the two armed young athletes hustled him between them. “Here, lay off that grabbing stuff! Where do you get that? I ain’t figuring on any getaway. I’m merely bringing a man into camp that stacks up like a spy or something like that. Better have a doctor come and take a look at him; I had to land him on the bean with my six-gun, and he acts kinda like he’s hurt. He ain’t moved since.”

  “Well, will you listen to that!” One of the foremost of the unarmed group grinned. “This here must be Skyrider Jewel, boys, no mistake about that—he’s running true to form. ’Nother elopement—only this time he’s went and eloped with a spy, he claims.”

  “Here comes the leatherneck. You’ll wish you hadn’t of lit, Skyrider. You’ll be shot at sunrise for this, sure!”

  “You know it! It’s a firing squad for yours, allrighty!”

  Johnny gave them a round-eyed, disgusted glare. “They can shoot and be darned; but the boss has got to see Cliff Lowell and the papers he’s got on him, if I have to wade through the whole hunch of you! Do you fellows think, for gosh sake, I just flew over here to give you guys a treat? Why, good golly! You—”

  “Here, you come along with me and do your talking to the commandant,” a gruff voice spoke at his shoulder.

  “And let these gobblers fool around here and mayb
e lose the stuff this man’s got in his clothes! Oh-h, no! Bring him along, and I’ll go. I’d sure like a chance to talk to somebody that can show a few brains on this job. That’s what I came over here for. I didn’t have to land, recollect.”

  The petty officer gave an order or two. The guards fell in beside Johnny with a military preciseness that impressed him to silence. From somewhere near two men trotted up with a field stretcher, and upon it Cliff was laid, still unconscious.

  “You sure beaned him right,” one of them observed, looking up at Johnny with some admiration.

  “Yes, and I’d like to bean the whole bunch of you the same way. You fellows ain’t making any hit with me at all,” Johnny retorted uncivilly as he left under guard for headquarters.

  A few minutes later he was standing alone before a man whose clean-cut, military bearing, to say nothing of the insignia of rank on his uniform, awed Johnny to the point of calling him “sir” and of couching his replies in his best, most grammatical English. The guards had been curtly dismissed, for which he was grateful, and he had the satisfaction of stating his case in private. Johnny did not want those fellows out there to hear just how easily he had been fooled. They seemed to know altogether too much about him as it was.

  The commandant listened attentively to what John Ivan Jewel had to say. John Ivan Jewel had nearly finished his story when he thought of another phase of the affair, and one that had begun to worry him considerably.

  “I forgot to tell you about the money. I’ve got a good deal from them since I started. They paid me on a sliding scale, beginning with fifteen hundred dollars a week and ending with two thousand that Cliff paid me this evening. I’ve got it all with me.”

  Prom his secret pocket Johnny drew all his wealth, counted off four hundred dollars and handed the rest to his inquisitor.