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

Luther Barr’s lean face appeared at the dusty window of the Government Office.

“A hundred dollars if you file that claim in time,” he shouted to the astonished clerk, who thought the old man had gone suddenly mad.

Bart Witherbee made a flying leap from the auto, and almost before it stopped had raced up the steps. But before he could gain the door of the assay office he found himself looking into the muzzles of two revolvers held by Hank Higgins and Noggy Wilkes.

“Don’t come no further, pardner,” grinned Hank. “It might be onhealthy for you.”

“Here, here; what’s all this?” growled the sheriff. “I don’t allow no shooting in my bailiwick. Put up them guns.”

“Let me get by, Hank Higgins,” exclaimed Bart Witherbee angrily.

“Hey, there; what’s that name you mentioned, partner?” asked the sheriff eagerly.

“Hank Higgins, and there’s his partner, Noggy Wilkes,” exclaimed the miner. “The third one, Bill Jenkins, is in jail.”

“Wall, if here ain’t a bit of Christmas luck,” shouted the sheriff exultingly. “I want ’em both for a dozen crimes. Here, you; you’re under arrest. Don’t move or I’ll fire.”

But Noggy Wilkes, with a desperate leap, had gained the side of his horse that stood, western fashion, unhitched, with the reins lying on the horn of his saddle. With one bound the desperado was mounted and galloping off down the trail. The sheriff sent two bullets after him, but both missed. Hank Higgins, however, was not so fortunate. With a muttered:

“I guess you got me right, sheriff,” he submitted to arrest.

In the meantime, Bart Witherbee had burst like a whirlwind into the Government office, upsetting a desk and spilling a bottle of ink over Luther Barr, who had angrily intercepted him.

“Don’t file that claim to Fogg’s mine,” he shouted, waving his papers above his head. “I’ve got a prior one.”

“You have – where?” gasped the astonished clerk.

“File that claim,” ordered Luther Barr. “I’ll report you to Washington if you don’t.”

“Hold your horses,” replied the clerk easily, “there seems to be some sort of dispute here. Do you lay claim to the mine?” he asked, turning to Witherbee.

“I sure do,” replied the miner, “and here’s my claim – the last will and testament of Jared Fogg, otherwise Jack Riggs. He leaves his mine and the treasure he has secretly hoarded from it and buried under the floor of his hut to me.”

“And who might you be?” asked the clerk eagerly.

“I am Bart Witherbee, and can easily prove it,” replied the miner, drawing from his pocket a number of papers.

The clerk quickly perused them and also the will.

“What time did you stake the mine?” he asked, suddenly turning to Luther Barr.

“At daylight to-day,” replied the millionaire. “I guess we win.”

“I guess not,” snapped back Witherbee. “Old man Fogg died shortly after midnight, as I can easily prove, and therefore the will became operative at that time.”

“I see you know some law,” remarked the clerk. “I guess, Mr. Barr, your claim is not valid.”

But Barr, raging furiously, had gone.

Outside the door he saw the boys. Beside himself with rage, he shook his fist at them. His rage was too intense to permit him to speak. The sheriff and everybody in the crowd insisted on shaking hands with Bart Witherbee and hearing again and again his strange story and the details of how the will had been found hidden in the hut. At last, however, accompanied by the sheriff, whose duty it was in that rough community to look after old Fogg’s, or Jack Riggs’ body, the boys and their miner friend managed to tear themselves away and sped back to the hermit’s hut in their auto. They found everything as they had left it, and, on tearing up the floor, according to the instructions left in the old man’s will, they found that a huge pit had been dug there, which was filled to the brim with ore which the old miser had painstakingly carried through his tunnel from his mine. A rough estimate valued it at $350,000.

“How do you suppose Luther Barr ever managed to locate the mine?” asked Frank wonderingly.

“That puzzled me, too, at first,” said the sheriff, “but now, since I have found that Hank Higgins and Noggy Wilkes knew Wild Bill Jenkins, it is a mystery no longer. Wild Bill boasted some time ago that he knew where the mine was, but he was forced to become a fugitive from justice before he had time to file any claim to it.”

Suddenly the voice of Billy Barnes, who had wandered out onto the trail with a rifle, was borne to their ears:

“Boys! Boys! Come quick!” he cried. There was urgent entreaty in his tone.

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE SAND STORM

Rushing out in the direction of the cries, the boys found Billy struggling in the grasp of Fred Reade, Luther Barr, and Slade, while the red-headed mechanic was striking at the aeroplane with a big wrench.

“There! If we can’t fly any more, no more can you,” he exclaimed viciously, making a savage smash at the engine. There was a sound of splintering metal.

“Consarn ’em, they’re trying to bust up our aeroplane,” yelled Bart Witherbee, making a dash at the group.

As they saw the boys and their companions coming the men took to their heels, Reade alone looking back to shout out:

“Now you can’t fly, either. You’re out of the race.”

This the boys construed to mean that the Slade aeroplane was too badly crippled to fly. And so they afterwards learned. The engine had developed a serious flaw, and one of the cylinders was cracked from top to bottom. In the part of the country in which they were it would, of course, have taken weeks to get a new engine.

“Shall we chase them?” asked Harry.

“No, it would be useless. Hark! they’re in their auto now, and would be away ahead of us by the time we got after them,” rejoined Frank.

The sound of an auto’s exhaust rapidly growing fainter reached their ears. It was the last they saw of Luther Barr and his gang, for that night they left Calabazos and making their way to the railroad took a train east. The skeleton of Slade’s unlucky aeroplane still remains in the little settlement, and greatly puzzles visitors there, some of whom think it is the framework of some extinct animal.

Billy Barnes soon told how, while shooting in the woods, he had heard an auto coming up the trail, and suspecting some mischief had hastened to the spot where the aeroplane had been left. He found his surmise correct when Barr and his companions suddenly emerged from the woods and began their attempt to wreck the craft. Before Billy, who indignantly sprang forward, could seize the arm of the vandal with the wrench, he had been seized. Luckily he had time to cry out before they thought of stopping him, and so the aeroplane was saved from serious damage. It was found, in fact, that the blow aimed at it had done no worse harm than to splinter a spark plug, which was soon replaced.

That afternoon the boys, leaving Bart Witherbee and the sheriff to make an inventory of the dead miner’s effects and to explore the tunnel, which was found to be a wonderful piece of work, the boys motored down to the settlement and sent out telegrams seeking information of the whereabouts of the dirigible. It was not till late evening that they received from Doolittle, a small town about forty miles from Calabazos, information that the big gas-lifted craft had laid up there for repairs, but was ready to start early the next day.

To the boys who had feared that the rival must have been almost in San Francisco by that time this was cheering news, and the Golden Eagle’s planes were hurriedly readjusted, as she was put in shape for a continuation of her trip. Early the next day the start was made. Bart Witherbee was left behind at his mine, in which he had insisted on the boys, much against their will, each taking a share. Old Mr. Joyce also received a large enough portion of the general good luck to secure him from want and give him ample leisure to work out his queer inventions. The Witherbee mine – he calls it the Aeroplane – is now one of the most famous in the west.

The boys had determined to shape their course by Doolittle, as it was on their direct path westward, and they wished also to get out of the mountainous region of the foothills. As Doolittle came in sight they had an opportunity to view their rival for the first time in many days. Her big red gas bag showed like a bright crimson flower above the sober gray of the prairie town. That their rivals had sighted them was soon made evident by the fact that a flag was run up on the single staff the town possessed and the citizens wheeled out a rusty old cannon and began firing it like mad. When the boys were within a mile of the town they made ready to drop messages which, as they sailed above, they cast down. They could see the people scrambling furiously for them.

“I hope they leave enough of them to send back home,” laughed Harry as they saw the wild struggle.

That day was to be a memorable one for the town of Doolittle. As the aeroplane passed above it, the faithful escorting auto not far behind, the big dirigible also was shot into the air.

Mr. McArthur from his deck waved a greeting to the boys and hailed them through a megaphone.

“Glad to see you,” he hailed. “Hurray, for ’Frisco!”

All that afternoon the two ships sailed along in company, the boys’ aeroplane slightly in the lead. As the sun sank lower a big bank of clouds arose toward the north and the sun glowed with a peculiar red light.