Wings Over the Rockies; Or, Jack Ralston's New Cloud Chaser

Cyclone proved an attentive listener, eagerly drinking in the particulars – nodding his head approvingly at certain points that appealed especially to his discriminating mind until the finishing stroke had been laid bare when he jumped up to shake hands boisterously with both Jack and Perk and to give vent to his feelings in words.

“By the great horn spoon! so that’s the bully sort of life you fellers in the Secret Service lead, is it?” he exclaimed with flashing eyes and an expression of eagerness on his enraptured face. “Some fine day, after I’ve had a few words with my director and told him where he gets off, I’ll be hanged if I don’t strike out for Washington and try to bore my way into the game you’re following – suits my spirit to the dot – lots of adventure, fair pay and the thrill of turning back these smart alecs who think they own the world because they’ve got a speed boat and the jack to buy a load of hard stuff in the Bahamas that they figure on landing along our coast.”

“That mightn’t be such a bad idea, Cyclone, for a man built like you and who yearns for excitement,” observed Jack sympathetically, for he could understand just how the other must feel. “When you get to that point of kicking over the traces in the picture game let me know and perhaps I can speak a good word for you at Headquarters. They’re always in need of the right sort of men. Remember that, will you, Cyclone?”

“You bet I will Jack, and I mean every word I say, too. I’ve never gone up in an airship yet, but the desire’s been gripping me a heap lately and perhaps, after I make the try tomorrow morning, that you’ve so kindly promised me, the fever’ll get so high I just won’t be able to hold back any longer.”

“That depends on how you come through your examination,” Jack plainly explained. “A lot of boys have an itch to make the riffle, but are turned down because they lack some one of a dozen requirements that are positively essential these modern days to get a pilot’s license. But as far as I can see, you ought to pass with flying colors – no joke intended either.”

They sat there chatting for several hours. Cyclone’s enthusiasm fairly bubbled over at times as he listened to some of the accounts of adventures that had befallen both Jack and Perk in days gone by.

“The more I hear from you boys the sicker I get over the way I’m wasting my young life with foolish cowboy stunts and make believe fights in the pictures. It’s pretty much a fake business and gets on my nerves – even many of the most thrilling scenes are fakes of the worst kind – pulling the wool over the eyes of the simple public. I got a notion I’m built for something that’s genuine and not a fraud – when you lads get into a mess it’s the real thing and you can put your heart in the action without a director yelling at you and ordering it all done over – sometimes as many as five times, till his royal highness is satisfied and you’re all worn to a shred with the hard work. Bah! me for the open and a life of genuine adventure, every time.”

“Je-ru-salem crickets! but you have got it bad, partner!” croaked Perk grinning happily as he spoke. “Goin’ are you, Cyclone? – well, we’ll pick you up about nine on the way to the flyin’ field. So-long – mighty glad we run across you tonight and had a chance to see how you work, them fists o’ yourn. The Service could make good use o’ a few real scrappers and I’d say the chance o’ you buttin’ in is gilt-edged.”

So closed a day that was not without its redeeming features, even Perk being satisfied that things were moving along the line of adventure and excitement.

VI

CYCLONE PROVES GAME

In the morning after they had partaken of a late breakfast, Jack and his pal stepped around the corner to get a taxi, pick up Cyclone as per arrangement and proceed out to the flying field.

“For one thing,” Perk was remarking as they stepped gaily along, “we ain’t noticed any sign o’ them gringoes we licked so neat last night. Guess they had their little tummies filled up with excitement and right now may be rubbin’ arnica on their hurts. Wow! but I’d hate to’ve got them socks Cyclone passed on to his party – must have near broke his nose for I saw his face was gettin’ fair bloody when he was snatched up and tossed into the car.”

They found the ex-fighter and cow puncher waiting anxiously for them, he having been abroad early and had his customary morning meal. Later on they arrived at the landing field and found everything “okay” as Perk put it. He had confessed to a little anxiety concerning the safety of their ship but the man they had hired to stand guard had not seen or heard anything suspicious during the entire night.

“Huh! guess they feel too blamed sore this mornin’ to be up an’ around,” was the sensible conclusion arrived at by Perk after his fears had been dissipated and in this summing up of the conditions he was seconded by Jack, likewise their mutual friend, Cyclone Davis.

It was Jack’s custom to always have his ship in condition for an immediate flight – there could be no telling how soon an order might reach them giving directions for a hasty takeoff with their goal any old place as Perk was accustomed to remarking off-hand.

Consequently there was always a full tank of gas on board together with plenty of lubricating oil and all manner of essential things so necessary to a successful flight. Of course, as a rule they could drop down at some wayside landing field for the purpose of replenishing their stores since the whole country was becoming dotted with such necessary places, some of them gorgeously fitted up with everything in the way of landing lights, extra hangars for visiting ships and even service plants for supplying gasoline with little effort.

Cyclone displayed no actual concern as he was secured in his seat by a stout leather strap, having also had the parachute harness fastened to his back. He watched every move of his two experienced companions with eagerness and asked not a few pertinent questions, thus showing his desire to know all there was connected with the flying game.

Then the pilot gave her the gun and they started to move along with constantly accelerated speed until presently Jack lifted his charge and they no longer found themselves in contact with the earth but mounting toward the blue sky overhead.

Up, up they climbed with great spirals marking their course – the earth below began to lose its individual proportions and looked like an immense checkerboard to the thrilled cowpuncher.

Cyclone could be seen twisting his head this way and that, eager to see everything. Perk, noting this, nodded his head as though feeling positive the other was going to fall in love with flying. Dashing across the plains on a cow pony, pursued by made-up Indians and all that regular sort of stuff must seem mighty tame to him after moving through the air at the rate of possibly a hundred and fifty miles an hour with the motor and propeller keeping up a constant roaring sound and all with the consciousness that he was several miles above the earth, amidst floating fleecy clouds, with even the high-flying eagle far, far beneath.

Jack took special pains to give the ambitious comrade such a ride as he could never have imagined, even in his wildest dreams – he put the new boat through all manner of ordinary stunts, even turning over so that they kept going ahead at a fair pace while flying upside-down – he went through dizzy revolutions, banked sharply and carried on generally as skillful pilots seem to take great delight in doing.

All this never seemed to bother Cyclone a particle – perhaps his experience as a cowboy may have assisted him to meet the numerous thrills without quailing.

Of course he could not talk with either of his friends for hearing was next to impossible since Jack was not making use of the silencer that had been made a part of the “furniture” of the new ship – but he nodded his head joyfully whenever he found Perk watching him with a question in his eye.

The two pilots had their head-phones in position, for they would no doubt like to hold communication from time to time. Thus it happened that Jack, chancing to think of something, addressed his chum.

“Forgot to ask you whether they’d learned anything about our lost friend, Buddy Warner – how about it, Perk?”

The other mechanically shook his head in the negative.

“Nothing doin’ along them lines, sorry to say partner,” he explained. “To be sure there was a’plenty o’ rumors, but the paper said nobody had learned a blamed thing that’d stand the wash. Afraid Buddy’s gone under an’ that the on’y thing left to do is to come across his crashed boat in some canyon off there in the Rockies. Tough, all right, but then us flyers jest got to look at sech mishaps as all in the line o’ duty – it’s like bein’ a soldier all over again, ready to start out mornin’s without a ghost o’ an idee we’ll be back to eat another meal or write a last letter home.”

“I’m mighty sorry to hear that, Perk. Buddy was a fine boy and everybody liked him. That old mother of his, too, it may be the death of her. Hurts to feel that no matter how many pilots may be scouring the land they just can’t seem to dig up even a little clue to tell where he dropped out of sight and never was heard from again – not even a flower could be dropped on his grave if they wanted to.”

Jack had taken a wild ride through cloudland, going something like two hundred miles and then swinging around to make the return trip after that he had climbed to a ceiling of something like twenty thousand feet until they were all shivering with the frigid air. Still Cyclone never flinched – indeed, he did not even display the slightest inclination to beg Jack to drop down where it was warmer – in fact he showed all the signs of one who would eventually make an exceptionally good flyer, could he but pass his examination successfully.

It was close to high noon when they landed after the most thrilling morning in all Cyclone’s checkered life. Before he said goodbye to his two pals he squeezed their hands, and with a face illumined said in his determined way:

“Me for a pilot’s license, boys and when I’ve done my fifty hours of solo flying and get my papers, behold me making a bee-line for Washington and breaking into Uncle Sam’s Secret Service corps. I’m a fade-out as a movie actor, and I feel that my star of destiny calls on me to be a cloud chaser, getting after law breakers in the air across the land from the Atlantic seaboard to the Gold Coast; ditto on the sea to the ends of the earth. Wish me luck, fellows and here’s hoping that some day we’ll all be pals in a great game. If ever you get to Los Angeles drop in and see me at Hollywood – if I’m still on deck and doing my little stunts rescuing fair maidens and beating the villains black and blue – all in your eye, boys.”

They were sorry to see him go, for Cyclone had turned out to be a most enjoyable companion as Jack told Perk more than a few times.

Since the morning flight had covered so much in the way of stunt flying, speed testing and altitude climbing, Jack decided there was hardly any necessity for their going out again in the afternoon. So they figured on taking things comfortably in their room, catching up with their sadly neglected correspondence, and even getting in a nap or two while waiting for their usual supper hour to come along.

The sun was well down in the western heavens when a knock on their door caused Jack to answer it. Perk could hear him speaking to the lady from whom they hired the room, then Jack came back examining a yellow bit of paper, meanwhile giving Perk a peculiar look that somehow caused the other to jump up excitedly and exclaim:

“Hot ziggetty dog! that strikes me like a wire, partner, tell me, has our order to strike out and get busy come along – gee whiz! I’m trembling all over with eagerness to know what our next line’s goin’ to be!”

VII

THEY ARE OFF!

Jack lost no time in answering the pleading look in Perk’s eyes.

“Order’s come at last, brother and we’re due to skip out of this burg just as soon as we can get a bite to eat.”

“Where to, Jack – north, east, south or west?” babbled the pleased Perk.

“Looks like it might be the last you named,” he was told.

“And if it ain’t a dead secret would you mind tellin’ me what sort of a jaunt we’re pushed on to this time – is it to be a hunt, partner?”

“I’d say it was, and with a vengeance too,” admitted Jack, still holding his chum over imaginary hot coals in that he declined to hasten with the information so urgently desired.

“So that’s all settled, hey? And what are we supposed to be huntin’, if it’s just the same to you to cough up that necessary information – more rum-chasers – bogus money-makers – check raisers, mebbe – runaway cashier with all the bank funds – which is it buddy?”

“Never came within a mile of the right answer,” Jack assured him with one of his puzzling smiles. “Fact is, it’s a pilot we’re ordered to fetch in.”

“Pilot – say, do we have to shoot out to sea after a steamship that’s carried off its harbor pilot – such rotten luck, when we expected something real big to take up our time and labor – shucks!”

“Wait, you jump at conclusions all too soon, Perk my boy. There happen to be several other kinds of pilots besides those who fetch ocean steamships in and out of New York harbor or the Golden Gate at San Francisco – for instance those on river steamboats, it might be, or those of airplanes!”

“Airships did you say, Jack?” roared Perk, his eyes widening while he clutched the hand that held the telegram as though tempted to try and read the printed words he could just manage to see upon the sheet.

“Yes, air-mail pilot in the bargain,” Jack fired at him.