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

They called for drinks in loud tones, and then demanded to see a man they called Wild Bill Jenkins.

“Why, Wild Bill Jenkins is just sitting in a friendly game o’ monte,” the boys could hear the bartender reply, “but if it’s anything very partic’lar I’ll call him, though he’ll rile up rough at bein’ disturbed.”

“Yes, it is very particular,” piped up another voice, evidently that of one of the automobile arrivals; “we must see him at once.”

The boys, with a start, recognized the voice of the speaker as that of Luther Barr.

“Must hev come quite a way in that buzz wagon of yours, stranger,” volunteered the bartender.

“Yes, we’ve driven over from Pintoville – it’s a good twenty miles, I should say.”

“Wall, we don’t call that more than a step out here,” rejoined the man who presided over the Lucky Strike’s bar.

In the meantime a messenger had been despatched to summon Wild Bill Jenkins. Pretty soon he came. He was in a bad temper over being interrupted at his game apparently.

“Who is the gasolene gig-riders as disturbed Wild Bill Jenkins at his game?” he roared. “Show ’em to me, an’ I’ll fill ’em so full of lead they’ll be worth a nickel a pound.”

“That will do, Bill,” put in another voice, seemingly Hank Higgins.

Wild Bill Jenkins’ manner instantly changed.

“Why, hello. Hank Higgins!” he exclaimed, “hullo, Noggy Wilkes. Air you in company with this old coyote?”

“Hush, Bill; that is Mr. Luther Barr, a very wealthy gentleman, and he wants to put you in the way of making a bit of money.”

“Oh, he does, does he? Wall, here’s my paw, stranger. Money always looks good to Bill Jenkins, and he’ll do most anything to get it.”

“This will be an easy task,” rejoined Luther Barr. “All you have to do is to tell us the location of that mine you know about. I will buy it from you. But we must be quick, for others are in search of it – Bart Witherbee and some boys that call themselves the Boy Aviators.”

“Why, that’s the bunch that came in here to-night,” exclaimed Wild Bill Jenkins.

“It is?”

“They are here now.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“Sure.”

“Where?”

“Right here in this hotel. I guess they’re asleep in their little cots now, right over your heads.”

“You don’t think it possible that they can have heard any of our conversation?”

“Not on your natural, stranger. We’re as safe talking here as in the Alloff Gastorium in New York. Is that all you want me to do?”

“That’s all. I will pay you well for the information when you deliver the map to me.”

“I’ll deliver it, never fear. It was a lucky day for me I stumbled on that old mine. I’ve never been able to claim it, though, for they’d lynch me for a little shooting if I showed my face there.”

“Those cubs have made good time. We are only twenty miles ahead of them,” struck in another voice – that of Fred Reade; “if we could only disable their machine it would come near putting them out of the race.”

“What, bust their fool sky wagon. That’s easy enough,” said Wild Bill Jenkins confidently. “Listen here.”

But some other customers entered the bar at this point, and the plotters sank their tones so low that the boys could hear no more.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE AUTO GONE

“Harry!”

“What is it, Frank?”

“Get on your clothes. You, too, Bart Witherbee, and be sure to conceal the map of your mine carefully.”

“What be yer goin’ ter do, Frank?”

“Fool those rascals. There is no doubt they are going to the stable and try to disable our aeroplane.”

“I reckon we’ll fool ’em, Frank.”

“I hope so. We must make haste. Come on out through this window here. It leads onto a back porch. We can slip down a support without anyone seeing us and get round to the stable before they get up from their table. They’ll be in no hurry, for they think we’re asleep.”

“What are we to do, Frank?” asked Billy Barnes and Lathrop, who, with old Mr. Joyce, were evidently to be left behind.

“Just snore as loud as ever you can. There is no doubt that they will creep up here after a while to see if we are asleep. If they hear you snoring they will think everything is all right.”

Frank, Harry and their hard companion were soon out of the window and on the ground. They found themselves on a back street, or rather, a mere trail on the prairie, for the town consisted of but a single street. They rapidly made their way to the livery stable. The man who owned it was there, and at first was inclined to be angry at being awakened.

He appeared at his door with a gun.

“Git out of here, you no good drunken cattle rustlers,” he bellowed, “or I’ll fill you full of lead. Don’t come skylarking around me.”

“We are not cattle rustlers. We’re the boys who own that aeroplane,” explained Frank. “We heard to-night, or rather we overheard, a plot to damage it so that it could not win the race.”

“What’s that?” demanded the other, “some no good, ornery cusses undertook ter come roun’t here and do up that thar contraption of yourn?”

“That’s it.”

“Wall, I don’t know as I’d blame anyone fer wantin’ ter bust up such things. Hosses air good enough fer us out here in the west, but nobody ain’t goin’ to hurt nothin’ of nobody’s while it’s under my care. Come on in an’ tell me about it.”

The boys’ story was soon told. When it was concluded the stable man was mad clear through.

“What, that hobo of a Wild Bill Jenkins, as he calls his self, come aroun’ here and try monkey tricks in my barn? Not much,” he kept repeating. “Hev you boys got shootin’-irons?”

“We shore have,” replied old Bart Witherbee.