Hike and the aeroplane

The Hustle was hurling herself through the night at a hundred miles an hour. The roar of the great Kulnoch motor filled the air; and through it sounded a sharp whine as the wind struck the planes. The powerful search-light bored a hole through intense darkness ahead, now and then showing a mountain peak; at sight of which Hike shot the machine up so fast that she seemed about to turn turtle. Sometimes the light, turned down on earth, picked out a mining town, with everyone asleep; sometimes, a broad river, shining in the light, between threatening rock walls.

On the Hustle dashed, never hesitating, over valleys and patches of yellow desert, from which a warm wind rose to flutter the planes; over hills and forests and long railroad-trestles where rails flashed in the light.

Hike had to think about a hundred things, but most of all he thought about keeping the Hustle going on—on to Washington—on to save Martin Priest! This was no time to lose his nerve or his wits. On; no matter how much his eyes smarted and watered in the wind. On; though his hands got cold and cramped, as they clutched the levers; and he seemed deaf for life, in the ceaseless smashing sound of the motor. He had to make the Hustle hustle!

He remembered a hundred parts of the machine all at once. He studied out where he was, on a map that unrolled from one rod upon another, and avoided bad hill-passes. He kept an eye on the dial of his aneroid barometer, strapped to his wrist like a watch. The barometer showed how high they were, and he never let the machine drop below two thousand feet, if he could help it; and so avoided the bad air-currents near earth. He watched the engine feed, tried the carbureter, saw that the fuel-mixture was right. He looked back at the rudder, and saw that it answered his lever. Most of all, he studied his roadway—the air.

Though he was heading as due east as possible, a powerful north wind was driving him southward before it. Sometimes the wind, suddenly charging from a great gap between two mountain peaks, tossed the Hustle like a leaf; picked it up and threw it almost against a hill; then let it drop two hundred feet.

The sailor of small boats is rather busy, among heavy seas, when a sudden flaw of wind strikes his sail. He has to keep the tiller on the jiggle, watch the mainsail, and be ready to let go the mainsheet almost before he can think. But sailing a small boat is as much easier than driving an aeroplane through uneven air-currents as sliding down hill is easier than sailing.

Hike had always to be ready to coax the Hustle up again, when she struck an air-pocket and fell like an elevator with a broken cable. He had to guess at what sort of currents were ahead of him, and be ready to round each tiny whirlwind as soon as he felt it slap at the planes.

He was too busy to be frightened, ever. Poodle had more time for that. Poodle kept the aeronautical map moving from one roller to another; he swung the search-light’s glare from hill to valley, and looked after the flow of oil from its tank to the distributing pipes, but mostly he sat there and watched the world jump up at them from below. Half a dozen times, when they seemed to be dashing down to the rocky ground, he felt quite certain they were killed, and wondered how he could jump and save himself. Just the same, he kept up a grin, for Hike to see when he glanced back, and, whenever Poodle slapped his arms to keep warm, he tried to be as cheery a clown as possible, so that “good ole Hike’ll have somethin’ ’appy to look at.” He busied himself with heating some coffee and broth, on the electric stove at the side of the platform, and made Hike gulp down a little of it. It was a bit curious to look down from the bubbling aluminum coffee-pot to a valley a thousand feet below, glaring in the search-light.

When the sky grew light with dawn, in front of them, and the hills looked cheerless in the early gray, Hike called Poodle to the seat beside him, and gave him the last of several lessons in aviation. Finally, he let Poodle drive her, for a while. Leaning against a pile of blankets and food on the platform, he stretched out his cramped legs, for a short rest.

The clouds promised rain and a bad wind, so Hike soon took the levers again. He made out by his map, soon after dawn, that they were over Kansas. They were coming to the end of the hilly country, into the plains; speeding over a hundred miles an hour. Hike was just planning to push her up to a hundred and fifty an hour when he made out something that caused him to swoop closer to earth, and hastily slow her down, with his foot-throttle. The shock almost threw Poodle out of his seat, and sent a can of coffee hurtling across the freight-platform.

Hike had seen a man and woman, ahead of them, riding madly across a stretch of prairie, toward a river. Pursuing them were a dozen men, also on horseback, shouting and shooting. The man and woman were not over half a mile ahead, and the pursuers were gaining.

Hike dropped, stopped his motor, landed just ahead of the fleeing couple, on a butte overlooking a deep narrow cut through which a river, swollen by recent rain, was raging. As the Hustle landed, the storm broke out in thunder.

The fleeing couple galloped up, shouting through the rain, “Help us!”

“What’s matter?” cried Poodle. “Get aboard!”

“Horse-thieves—there—kidnapped young lady—my sweetheart—wanted make her marry man—I got her back—they want lynch me,” panted the man, as he vaulted from his horse. He helped down the girl and lifted her on the freight-platform of the Hustle. He was a clean, decent-looking chap, Hike thought, and the story was probably true, with those wild bandits chasing the couple.

Hike switched on the spark—but the engine did not start. Through the rain the pursuers could be seen, galloping toward them. A rifle bullet sang through the Hustle’s planes.

“What’s matter?” Poodle yelled again.

Hike shouted, “Dunno—won’t start. Climb out—we’ll glide across river!”

They pushed the machine to the down slope of the butte, toward the river, and swung back into their seats. Down the slope she ran, rose a little, and glided out into the air, over the river.

But their start had been bad. The ground had been wet, their shove short. The Hustle was settling down, threatening to drop into the river. They had to rise, to get over the hilly bank on the other side.

Thinking it all out, in a second, while they were soaring, Hike decided to lighten their load. “Deflect elevating plane when get over!” he howled to Poodle, and then leaped from his seat, out into the air, and dropped down into the river.

He was badly shaken up, but he crawled out on the farther bank, and rushed up the hilly river-edge. He saw the Hustle sail across the river, just grazing the hill, and then disappear beyond the hill, safe. On the side of the river from which they had just come, the pursuing men had already ridden up to the top of the butte. Hike hastened to the safely stopped machine and, diving down beside her engine, tried the spark.

Poodle climbed out and stood on guard, with his revolver ready.

“Gwan up the hill. See they don’t ford river,” said Hike, and Poodle, his plump legs going like bicycle-wheel spokes, dashed up to the rise overlooking the water.

In the rain that pelted the river till its surface looked like little hills and valleys, and soaked him to the skin, Poodle lay on his stomach atop the hill, and watched the pursuers stop, take council, then ride down to the water and put their frightened horses at the rushing river.

He didn’t want to shoot—he didn’t want to take a chance of killing any one, reflected soft-hearted young Poodle. But he looked back at the frightened young man and woman who, from their seats in the Hustle, were watching Hike work over the engine, seeming even more frightened by the fight than interested in their first aeroplane.

Then he looked back at the pursuers, grimly; took aim at the big black-bearded man who led the bunch, and shouted down, “Halt!”

The man, urging his horse into the river, looked up, amazed, then grinned to see a boy trying to keep him back! He didn’t know that the boy, instead of being frightened, was doing some grinning himself, thinking, “Gee—wish he didn’t look so much like Martin Priest—but here goes. Going to be a surprise-party, right here.” He shot at the leader’s horse three times, paused, saw the animal topple over into the river, and then began firing at the horses of the others—sorry for the animals, but never stopping pumping lead into them.

But the men were like savages. While he was firing at one section, another bunch rode down a little farther along, and began to ford. Then Poodle heard a “Bang, bang, bang!” near him, and saw the young man whom they were rescuing lying on his stomach, holding a revolver.

The young man seemed happy, now that he was in action. Stopping only to yell, “The Cap’n, yonder, ordered me on the firing line,” he began to shoot without stopping.

But their revolvers were not good for the long range, and it would have taken Gatling guns to stop that crowd of desperate cattle-rustlers.

The black-bearded leader had run back up the bank, across the river. He mounted the horse which the young man had abandoned when he got in the tetrahedral. Again he was fording, yelling like a wild man.

Some of the bunch were across. Poodle and the young man ran back to the Hustle, and continued firing from its shelter as the horse-thieves circled about, discharging their rifles. Hike kept working as calmly and swiftly over the engine as though he were in the aerodrome.

Suddenly the bandits turned and galloped away, as an infernal cracking, like a Gatling gun, came from the Hustle. Hike had started the engine.

“Quick, in!” shouted Hike, and the three swung into their seats. The Hustle ran, darted up and they soared, over the heads of the bandits, who shot at them wildly and vainly.

The machine never stopped till she had reached the young man’s town, fifty miles farther on. There they descended in the town-park, the young man and his rescued lady climbed out, and started to thank Hike and Poodle.

But about the time they had got out three words, they stopped, for the Hustle was darting away over the town, at a hundred and fifty miles an hour, to make up time.

“Them’s nice boys,” said the young man.

“Lovely,” said the young lady. “They must be going awful far in that contraption—maybe as far as Chicago!”