The Boy Aviators in Record Flight; Or, The Rival Aeroplane

“There doesn’t seem to be much of anything there,” remarked Frank, as he looked ahead of him at the collection of ramshackle buildings that they knew from their observations must be Cow Wells.

“I don’t see a soul moving,” declared Harry.

“Neither do I,” was the other lad’s response. “Maybe they are all away at a festival or something.”

“Well, we’ll get water there, anyhow,” remarked Frank. “I’m so thirsty I could drink a river dry.”

“Same here.”

As the boys neared it, the lifeless appearance of Cow Wells became even more marked. The timbers of the houses had baked a dirty gray color in the hot sun, and what few buildings had been painted had all faded to the same neutral hue. The pigment had peeled off them under the heat in huge patches.

Of all the towns the boys had so far encountered on their transcontinental trip, this was the first one, however small, in which there had not been a rush of eager inhabitants to see the wonderful aeroplane.

“They must be all asleep,” laughed Harry; “here, we’ll wake them up.”

He drew his revolver and fired a volley of shots.

For reply, instead of a rush of startled townsfolk, a gray coyote silently slipped from a ruined barn and slunk across the prairie.

The truth burst on both the boys at once.

“The place is deserted,” exclaimed Harry.

“We can get some water there though, I guess, just the same,” replied the other. “There must be some wells left.”

They swooped down onto the silent, deserted town, in which the sand had drifted high in front of many of the houses. Eagerly they climbed out of the chassis of the aeroplane and investigated the place.

“Hurray,” suddenly shouted Harry, rushing up to a large building with a long porch, that had evidently once been the hotel, “here’s a pump.”

He pointed to an aged iron pump that stood in front of the tumbled down building. But the boys were doomed once more to disappointment. A few strokes of its clanking handle showed them that it was a long time since water had passed its spout. They investigated other wells with the same result.

The boys exchanged blank looks as they realized that they were to get no water there, but suddenly the realization that the auto was back there in the desert somewhere with a tank full of water cheered them.

“They’ve lots of water in the tank,” suggested Harry.

“I guess that’s right; we’d better wait till they come and get a drink of it. I’d almost give my chances in the race for a big glass of lemonade right now.”

“Don’t talk of such things, you only make it worse,” groaned Harry. “Just plain ice water would do me fine. I could drink a whole cooler full of it.”

“Same here – but listen – here comes the auto.”

Sure enough the chug-chug of their escort was drawing near down the rough desert road.

“Say, fellows,” shouted both boys, as the auto rolled up, “how about a drink of water from the tank?”

“Gee whiz,” groaned Billy, “that’s just the trouble. There’s not a drop in it.”

“What, no water?” exclaimed Frank blankly.

“Not a drop, and Bart says we can’t get any here.”

“That’s right; we’ve investigated.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Keep on to Gitalong, that’s the thing to do. If you don’t get there within half an hour of our arrival we’ll start out after you with water.”

“I suppose that’s all we can do,” groaned poor Billy.

“And the quicker we do it, the better,” briskly announced Frank. “Come on, Harry; ho for Gitalong, and to the dickens with Cow Wells, where there are no cows and no wells.”

“That’s why they gave it the name, I guess,” commented Lathrop, with a sorrowful grin.

It grew hotter and hotter as the afternoon wore on. Billy finally, although he stuck to the wheel pluckily as long as he was able, was compelled to give it up to Lathrop. After that he lay on the floor of the tonneau, suffering terrible torments from his raging thirst.

Old Bart sat grimly by Lathrop’s side, encouraging him as well as he knew how, and the boy bravely smiled at the old miner’s jokes and stories, although each smile made his parched lips crack.

“Why, what’s the matter?” remarked Lathrop suddenly, as the auto seemed to slow down and come to a stop of itself.

“I dunno; you’re an auto driver, you ought to know,” said Bart.

“The engine’s overheated,” pronounced old man Joyce. “Look at the steam coming from the cap of the radiator.”

He pointed to a slender wisp of white vapor. It indicated to Lathrop at once that Mr. Joyce was right. The accident they had dreaded had happened. It might be hours before they could proceed.

“What can we do?” demanded Bart Witherbee.

“Nothing,” responded Lathrop, “except to let her cool off. The cylinders have jammed, and the metal won’t cool sufficiently till the evening to allow us to proceed.”

“We’re stuck here, then?”

“That’s it, Bart. We had better crawl under the machine. We shall get some shade there, anyhow.”

“A good idee, youngster; come on, Mr. Joyce. Here, Lathrop, bear a hand here, and help me get poor Billy out.”

The fleshy young reporter was indeed in a sad state. His stoutness made the heat harder for him to bear than the others. They rolled him into the shade under the auto and there they all lay till sundown, panting painfully. As the sun dropped it grew cooler, and gradually a slight breeze crept over the burning waste. As it did so the adventurers crawled from their retreat, even Billy partially reviving in the grateful drop in the temperature. But there was still no sign of the aeroplane.

After a brief examination of the engine Lathrop announced that the party could proceed, and he started up the engine cautiously. It seemed to work all right, and once more the auto moved forward. They had not proceeded more than two miles when they heard a shout in the air over their heads, and there was the Golden Eagle circling not far above them.

Lathrop instantly stopped the machine, and the aeroplane swept down. Frank and Harry had brought with them a plentiful supply of water in canteens.

The boys drank as if they would never stop.

“I never tasted an ice-cream soda as good,” declared Billy.

Refreshed and invigorated, the adventurers resumed their journey toward Gitalong as soon as they had fully quenched their thirst, and poured some of the water over their sun-parched faces and hands. They reached the town late in the evening and were warmly welcomed by the citizens, mostly cowboys and Indians, who had sat up to await their arrival. Several of them, in fact, rode far out onto the prairie and, with popping revolvers and loud yells, escorted the auto party into town.

The aeroplane was stored in a livery stable that night, while the boys registered at the Lucky Strike hotel. The Lucky Strike’s menu was mostly beans, but they made a good meal. They had hardly got into their beds, which were all placed in a long room, right under the rafters, when they heard to their amazement the sound of an auto approaching the place. It drew up in front of the hotel and the listeners heard heavy steps as its occupants climbed out of it and entered the bar.