The Smoky City, with its inky smoke canopy, bluff-bordered rivers and distant heights crowned with beautiful residences, was soon left far behind. But for a long time the boys flew high above veritable gridirons of railroad yards crowded with busy freight trains and puffing yard locomotives. Every one of the engines gave them a screeching greeting as they soared steadily along far above them.

But they were not alone in the air. The Slade machine was close behind them, with his assistant at the wheel. McArthur’s dirigible, too, was off a few minutes after the boys took the air. The three racers flew onward with no perceptible difference in the distances between them. Each seemed to be grimly holding its own. At Steubenville, Ohio, the boys struck the Ohio river and flew above its course as far as Ashland, where they crossed the border line of the state into Kentucky.

In forty-eight hours more, having allowed ample time for rests and engine adjustments, they arrived at Nashville, Tenn., having passed the border line of the state a few hours before. For several hours they had not seen the other racers, but at Nashville they learned that Slade’s aeroplane had arrived four hours ahead of them, having therefore gained one hour in actual time.

The gain had probably occurred while the boys were delayed at a small town near the Kentucky border fitting new spark plugs, those they used having become badly carbonized by their hard service. They spent little time in the beautiful capital of Tennessee on the banks of the historic Cumberland river. The crowds pestered them to such an extent that they were anxious to hurry on as soon as possible. An examination of the engine, however, showed that it was in need of considerable adjustment, and old Mr. Joyce was compelled to spend several hours over it. The gyroscopic balancer likewise was in need of having its bearings attended to. Slade seemed to have better luck, for his party left Nashville two hours ahead of the Boy Aviators. The start of the Despatch craft was closely followed by that of McArthur’s dirigible, carrying a large gas supply. The extra weight had been compensated for by ripping out a large part of the cabin and cutting down every ounce carried, so far as it was possible to do so without imperiling the ship.

However, when they finally did take the air from the meadow on the banks of the Cumberland in which they had camped, the boys had the satisfaction of knowing that their craft had had a thorough overhauling. The auto, also, had had new tires fitted and its engine overhauled.

The journey across the rolling plains of Arkansas, skirting the Ozarks to the south, on across the vast levels of Oklahoma, fertile with crops and dotted with thrifty homesteads and small frontier towns, was made without incident. One night the boys found themselves camped on the banks of the Canadian river, not very far from the town of Bravo, in the northwest of the great Panhandle of Texas. For two days, now, they had not seen either of their competitors, and had no idea of where either of them were, though at infrequent opportunities he had in the wild country through which they were now traveling, Billy had tried several times to ascertain by telegraph some word of their whereabouts.

The heat was, as Billy said, enough to fry the horn-toads that crawled about on the vast level that stretched, quivering in the torrid sun rays, as far as the eye could reach on every side of the boys’ camping-place. Fortunately they had selected a site beneath an old sycamore tree, which gave them some scanty shade. High against the blazing sky a few turkey-buzzards wheeled, doubtless watching the camps with speculative eyes to ascertain if they were all alive.

But on this latter point there could have existed no doubt in the minds of any human onlookers. The clink-clink of hammers and drills, as the boys worked over their engine with old Mr. Joyce superintending, while Billy Barnes and Lathrop were actively employed loading the auto with a camping kit, gave the camp an appearance of great life and bustle. As for Bart Witherbee, he was at his favorite occupation of cooking. He had shot some young jack-rabbits a few hours before, and was now composing a stew.

“I didn’t know jack-rabbits were good to eat,” exclaimed Billy, when the miner had brought them into camp.

“Young ones is,” explained the plainsman, “but keep away from the elderly jack-rabbits.”

Suddenly Billy, who had looked from his task for the fiftieth time to remark that it was hot, noticed quite a cloud of dust swirling toward the adventurers across the prairie.

“Gee, here comes a whirlwind!” he exclaimed, pointing. The others looked, too.

“Maybe it’s a cyclone,” suggested Harry.

Old Witherbee placed his hand over his eyebrows and peered long and earnestly at the rapidly approaching cloud of yellow dust.

“Whatever is it?” asked Frank.

“Somethin’ that I’m afeard is goin’ ter make it mighty uncomfortable for us,” exclaimed Witherbee, with a tone of anxiety in his voice.

“Mighty uncomfortable, how? Will it blow the auto away?” asked Billy.

“No, youngster, but it may blow us up; that cloud yonder is a bunch of skylarking cowboys, and they’re coming right for us.”

“Will they kill us?” asked Billy anxiously.

“No, I don’t think it’ll be as bad as that; though they git mighty onery sometimes. Don’t you boys give ’em no back talk, and maybe we’ll get out all right.”

The rapid advance of the approaching cowboys could now be heard. Their ponies’ hoofs could also be seen as they flashed in and out under the cloud of dust.

Suddenly there was a terrific volley of yells, and, as the cavalcade drew rein, the cloud rolled away and the boys found they were surrounded by forty or fifty wild-looking fellows, all yelling and shouting. Some of them had revolvers and were firing them in the air. The din was terrific.

“Throw up yer hands, yer Scanderhovian bunch of tenderfeet,” shouted the leader, a big man on a buckskin pony, whose legs were incased, despite the intense heat, in a huge, hairy pair of bearskin “chaps.”

The boys all elevated their hands, and old man Joyce and Bart Witherbee hastened to follow their example.

“Where’s this yar sky schooner yer goin’ a-sailin’ around in, scaring our cattle and driving the critters plumb crazy?” he demanded angrily.

“If you mean our aeroplane, there it is,” said Frank, indicating the machine.

“Wall, there was two of them went over here yisterday, and all the beef critters on the Bar X range is plum stampeded all over the per-arie. We’re goin’ ter stop this, an’ we might as well begin right now. Come on, boys, shoot the blame thing full o’ holes and put a few in ther choo-choo wagin while yer at it.”

The situation was critical indeed.

The boys saw no way of saving their aeroplane, and to add to their troubles they had been informed that their two rivals were in front of them.

Frank alone retained his presence of mind. He saw that only by a trick could they regain their safety from the desperate men into whose power they had fallen.

“Did you ever see an aeroplane before?” he asked of the leader.

“No, I never did,” replied the other; “why?”

“Well, you seem to have a pretty dry part of the country out here, and I guess a little rain would do it no harm.”

“That’s right, stranger, you never spoke a truer word; but what in thunder has that got to do with yer blamed scaryplane, or whatever you call it, scaring all our beef critters away?”

“I am very sorry for your misfortune, Mr.—Mr.——”

“Rattlesnake Ike is my name, with no blame ‘Mister’ on it, young tenderfoot,” growled the other.

“Well, Rattlesnake Ike, we can make rain.”

“What?” roared the whole assemblage.

“We can make rain,” calmly repeated the boy, “with that aeroplane.”

“Wall, now, stranger, how kin yer do that—tell us,” demanded the leader of the cowboys, leaning forward on the bow of his saddle, deeply interested.

“Well, you’ve heard that explosions near the sky will concentrate the moisture, thus causing it to condense in a copious rainfall,” declaimed Frank pompously, putting in all the long words he could think of.

“Hump—wall,” dubiously remarked the cowboy, scratching his head, “I dunno as I hev, but you seem ter have it all down pat.”

“That’s what we’ve been doing with our aeroplane,” went on Frank, “making rain. Haven’t we?” he turned to Witherbee questioningly. The miner at once saw what he was driving at.

“Sure,” said the old miner. “Why, pardners, down in Arkansaw they had forgotten what rain looked like till we came along. We made it pour for three days.”

“And that scaryplane does it?”

“Well, we go up in it and then fire bombs from this rain-gun.”

Frank indicated the searchlight as he spoke.

“Wall, I’d sure like ter see that,” said the leader. “How about it, boys?”

“Let’s see what they kin do; but if yer don’t make it rain, strangers, we’ll string you all up ter that sycamore tree,” decided one of the group.

They all chorused assent, and Frank and Harry at once got into the machine.

“Hand me some rain bombs, Billy,” said Frank.

Billy Barnes reached into the tonneau and produced some blue flares. These he handed to Frank.

“Take care they don’t go off, Frank,” he said solemnly.

“Yes; you recollect them twenty fellers as was killed in St. Looey,” warned old Witherbee solemnly.

“Say, strangers, are them there things dangerous?” asked the cowboy leader.

“Well, there’s enough dynamite in them to blow that river there clean into the next county,” rejoined Frank, “but don’t be scared, we won’t drop them.”

“Get into the auto when we are well up,” Frank whispered rapidly to Billy, while the cowboys exchanged awed glances.

“Now, gentlemen,” he went on aloud, “get your umbrellas ready, for pretty soon there’s going to be some big rain.”

The aeroplane started up while the cowboys yelled and whooped. It had reached a height of about two hundred feet, and was circling above their heads, when Harry suddenly lighted one of the fizzing blue flares; at the same instant Billy, followed by the others, leaped into the auto.

“Hey, stop that!” yelled the cowboy leader, but at the same moment he broke off with a yell of terror.

“Look out for the dynamite bomb!” yelled Harry, as he dropped the flaming blue flare over the side of the aeroplane, fairly on top of the gang of cowboys.

“Ride for your lives, boys!” shouted the leader of the cowboys, as the flaming light dropped, “she’s goin’ ter bust.”

They didn’t need any urging, but fled with wild cries.

By the time the cattlemen realized they had been tricked, the auto was away on the prairie, speeding on toward the west in a cloud of dust, while the aeroplane was far out of range.