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

“Pintoville,” exclaimed Frank; “that’s where Luther Barr said he was stopping. Say, boys, let’s send out a wireless to White Willow and see if we can raise the inventor there and ascertain if our auto passed through.”

“But it was late at night. They would all have been in bed,” objected Billy.

“Well, it’s worth trying, anyhow, so here goes.” Frank sat down at the key of the Golden Eagle’s wireless, and began tapping out “White Willow – White Willow – Willow – White Willow,” till his hand ached.

“No good, I guess,” he said, discouraged, as, after quite a time, no response to his call came.

“I always thought that old feller at White Willow was loco,” remarked one of the crowd.

Suddenly, however, Frank held up his hand.

“He’s answering,” he cried.

Sure enough, over the wires came the question:

“Here’s White Willow. Who wants White Willow? For five years I’ve been trying to get a call here, and no one ever came. Who are you?”

“We are the Boy Aviators,” tapped back Frank, while the miners and cowboys gazed in awe at the blue flame ripping and crackling across its gap. “Have you seen two autos pass through White Willow?”

“They have not passed through. They are here now,” was the astonishing response.

The boys saw Frank jump to his feet with an excited yell of “Hurray! We’ll get them yet.”

“He’s gone daffy, too,” exclaimed the men in the group about the aeroplane.

“Are you crazy, Frank?” seriously demanded Billy.

“The auto’s in White Willow!” shouted Frank, slapping the boy on the back.

“What?”

“That’s right. The old wireless man – I mean the wireless old man – no, I don’t – oh, what I do mean is that we’ve got to get over there in jig time. Come on, Harry, climb aboard. Bart, we’ll need you, too.”

“What, me git in that thar thing?” dubiously responded the miner. “No, sir, I’ve walked like a Christian all my days on the earth, and I ain’t goin’ to tempt Providence by flying at this time of life.”

“Hullo! hullo! what’s all this?” came a deep voice, as a big man elbowed his way through the crowd. “What’s all this about flying?”

“It’s the sheriff,” called some one.

In the meantime the big man had made his way to Frank’s side as he leaned over testing the gasolene tanks and the amount of water there was in the radiator receptacle.

“Here, young feller,” he exclaimed, “I don’t know if it’s legal to go flyin’ aroun’ in this county. Hav yer got a permit or suthin’?”

“No,” replied Frank; “but if you are the sheriff there are some of the worst men in your jurisdiction right in White Willow now.”

“The blue heavens, you say. Who air they, young feller?”

“Wild Bill Jenkins, Hank Higgins and Noggy Wilkes.”

“Why, thar’s a reward for Wild Bill Jenkins!” exclaimed the sheriff.

“Well, you can get it if you hurry over thar.”

“Hold on a minute, young feller. How do I know you ain’t fooling me?”

“Because I was talking to a man in White Willow a few minutes ago.”

“What’s that? Say, be careful how yer string me.”

“I certainly was, and he told me that the men we are in search of came there in two autos last night.”

“Say, stranger, the heat’s gone to yer head, ain’t it?”

“Not at all. You’ve heard of wireless?”

“Yes; but that’s all a fake, ain’t it?”

“If you’ll jump in and ride with us to White Willow I’ll soon show you how much of a fake it is,” rejoined the boy.

“What! jump in that thar wind wagon? Why, boy, I’ve got a wife and family to look arter. If I went skyhopping aroun’ in that thar loose-jointed benzine broncho I might break my precious neck.”

“I’ll guarantee your neck,” spoke up Harry.

“Say, boys, ef thar sheriff don’t want ter go, I’ll go along with yer. Thar’s $25,000 reward fer Wild Bill Jenkins, an’ I’d jes’ as soon take a chance ter git thar money. Giv me yer warrant, sheriff, an’ I’ll serve it fer yer and split ther reward.”

The speaker was a wiry little cowboy, apparently just in off the range, for he held by the reins a small buckskin broncho.

“What’s that, Squainty Bill?” bellowed the sheriff. “I allow Tom Meade ain’t going ter allow the perogatives of sheriff tuk away frum him by no sawed-off bit of a sagebrush chawing, jackrabbit of a cattle rustler. Come on, boys, show me how you git aboard this yer atmospheric ambler of yourn, and we’ll git after Wild Bill Jenkins.”

The boys soon helped the redoubtable Tom Meade into the chassis, and while the other lads held the machine back Frank shouted for a clear road. He didn’t get it till he opened up the exhaust on the engine, and they were roaring like a battery of gatling guns going into action. Then he got it in a minute. There were four runaways and five cases of heat prostration right there.

“Let go,” shouted Frank.

“Hey! hold on, young feller,” cried the sheriff, starting to scramble out. Harry seized him just in time, for the Golden Eagle shot upward like an arrow under the full power of her hundred-horse engine.

“Say, young tenderfeet, Tom Meade ain’t no coward; but no more of this fer me if I ever git out of this alive,” gasped the sheriff.

“Oh, you’ll get used to it in a minute and enjoy it,” laughed Harry. “Say, Frank, muffle those exhausts, will you? They make so much racket you can’t hear yourself think.”

Frank cut in on the muffler, and instantly the noise sank to the soft droning purr of the perfectly working engine.

“Wall, if this don’t beat lynching horse thieves,” remarked the sheriff admiringly as the aeroplane rushed through the air. He was much reassured by the absence of noise that had ensued when the muffler came into action.

“You’ll have to be our guide, sheriff,” said Frank suddenly. “Where do I steer for White Willow?”

“Wait a minute, young feller! I’m all flabbergasted. Ah, now I’ve got it – aim right for that thar dip in the Saw-buck foothills. That’s it, and when you open up old Baldy between it and Bar Mountain, then you’re right on a line for it.”

In a few minutes Frank sighted the peaks named, and following directions, they soon saw a huddle of huts dumped down on the prairie a short distance from them.