Daring Wings

  E-text prepared by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed ProofreadingTeam (https://www.pgdp.net)

  DARING WINGS

  by

  GRAHAM M. DEAN

  Author of_Sky Trail__Circle 4 Patrol_

  The Goldsmith Publishing Co.Chicago

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  Copyright 1931 byThe Goldsmith Publishing Co.Made in U.S.A.

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  CONTENTS

  1. Deadly Wings 2. Frozen Nerve 3. Warning from the Sky 4. A Challenge 5. The Old Crate 6. In the Great Smokies 7. Through the Fog 8. King of the Air 9. The Good Will Tour 10. Riding Down 11. Into the North 12. Tomb of the Vikings 13. Below the Border 14. The Unfinished Story 15. The Sky Hawk

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  Daring Wings

  CHAPTER ONE

  "Some of our biggest news stories will break above the clouds. Theskyways are going to unfold great tales of romance, of daring, possiblyof banditry, but whatever it may be, we must have the stories. Do youwant the job of getting them?" George Carson, the sandy-haired managingeditor of the Atkinson News, fired the question at the reporter standingat the other side of his desk.

  "Do I want the job?" There was amazement in Tim Murphy's voice. "Give mea plane and I'll bring you some of the best yarns you ever printed." Hisclean-cut features were aglow with interest.

  "All right Tim," said Carson. "This afternoon the News will announce thefirst flying reporter. I thought you'd like the job. That's why we sentyou to an aviation school--so we can have the jump on the Times and theJournal. They can hire plenty of aviators but it will take them time totrain a first class reporter to fly."

  Tim grinned and his blue eyes snapped. Even though he was one of thestar reporters on the staff he liked the managing editor's indirectcompliment.

  "We've got a plane all ready for you at the municipal airport," went onthe managing editor. "It's one of those new Larks with a Wasp motor thatwill take her along at 150 miles an hour. She's all ready to go. Thesky's your assignment--go the limit to get your stories."

  Tim hurried back to his desk where the half completed story of adown-town fire was still in his typewriter. He picked up a pad of notesbeside his machine and turned to the reporter at the next desk.

  "Finish up this fire story for me, will you Ralph? Here's all the dopeand the city editor wants it for the noon edition."

  "What's the big idea?" Ralph Parsons wanted to know.

  "Big idea is right," fairly exploded Tim. "I've got a new job--flyingreporter. Carson has just bought a dandy new plane and I'm going topilot it and write the stories."

  "Good, Tim. I don't blame you for being excited. It's a great chance.I'll finish up the fire story for you. Will you give me a ride if I runout after I'm through this afternoon?"

  "Sure, Ralph, a dozen if you want them," and with that Tim seized hishat and dashed through the door of the big news room, down the stairsand into the street where he found one of the flivvers used by thereporters.

  Fifteen minutes later Tim tucked his elongated legs into the cockpit ofthe trimmest little plane he had ever laid eyes on. He ran the motor upand down the scale, then gave it the gun, darted over the surface of thefield, flipped the tail up--and the flying reporter was in the air.

  It was a glorious feeling to be in the air--to be free of the smoke andsmell of the city and for an hour Tim circled over Atkinson. High, thenlow, he dived, banked, zoomed and looped--did everything to test theflying qualities of the little plane. At the end of the test flight hewas more than pleased. It was perfectly rigged.

  Tim, an orphan who had joined the News after school days, had worked upfrom cub reporter to the police run and then up to special assignmentwriter. He had been sent to an aviation school three months before andwhile there had written a series of Sunday features on learning how tofly. Tim hadn't dreamed of being given a flying assignment but he hadmastered the intricacies of an airplane with the same wholesomeenthusiasm which characterized everything he did. That was one of thereasons why he was a star reporter in spite of his comparative youth,for Tim had just turned twenty-one.

  The Lark was still swooping over the field when one of the cars used byNews reporters dashed through the main gate of the big airport. Tim cutthe motor, made a three point landing, and climbed out of the cockpit.

  Ralph Parsons hopped out of the car and ran toward the plane. He shovedan extra into Tim's hands.

  "TRANSCONTINENTAL AIR MAIL ROBBED; $200,000 TAKEN." The headlines, inheavy, black type, fairly screamed the story at Tim. In brief clearsentences he read how the eastbound mail plane, which had left Atkinsonat midnight, had been found a hundred miles east near Auburn, a villagein the valley of the Cedar River. The plane was a mass of tangledwreckage, its pilot dead, the registered mail sacks looted.

  "Carson says for you to hump yourself and get over there before dark,"said Ralph. "He wants a lot of copy for the early editions tomorrow. Theroads over that way are practically impassable and we can't get enoughof the details over the telephone. The air mail people are sending out aship but we don't know when they'll be back. It's bad country to flyover, Tim, so be careful."

  Ralph's well meant warning was lost on Tim. Calling a mechanic, thelanky young flyer swung his ship around, opened up the powerful motor,and sped down the field and into the air. The flying reporter was off onhis first assignment.

  The air was smooth and cool. The late winter sun glinted through thelazy clouds in the west and flashed off the crimson wings of the littleplane. Tim headed straight east. Far behind him the Great Smokies rearedtheir heads in a dim outline while a hundred miles ahead of his whirlingpropeller the Cedar River carved its way.

  Atkinson, with its bustling streets, its busy factories and 200,000inhabitants, was soon left behind. For almost an hour Tim held to hiscourse. When he sighted the silver ribbon that was the Cedar River, heswung south until he picked up the village of Auburn. It was little morethan a cluster of houses on the right bank of the mighty river.

  There was no regular landing field at the village but Tim found apasture a mile back from the river that looked large enough for hispurpose. He stalled down, taking his time. There was no use risking acrackup with his new ship. The pasture was cuppy and there was a sloughon one side but Tim killed his speed quickly after he set the Lark downand pulled up less than twenty feet from a fence.

  Tim had sighted the wreck of the air mail in a timber patch half way tothe village. After landing his own craft it took him less than tenminutes to find what was left of the mail. There was little in the pileof wreckage to resemble the sturdy, silver craft which had left theAtkinson airport the night before. It was just a heap of tangled wiresand struts, scraps of canvas and twisted rods. It looked like a crackup,with the mail looted after the smash, but to Tim's carefully trainednews sense there was something more. He couldn't have defined hisfeelings in so many words but he played his hunch and examined theremains of the big plane. He had almost completed his examination whensomething on the motor caught his attention. He bent over it and when hestraightened up there was a new gleam of interest in his eyes.

  With the aid of a farm boy Tim managed to get a fence post under themotor and half rolled it over. A few minutes more of hard wo
rk and hesucceeded in removing several parts from the engine.

  By the time the flying reporter had completed his task the light wasfading fast and, satisfied with his survey of the wrecked plane, Timhurried toward the village.

  Auburn was small but friendly and he soon found out what little theresidents of the valley knew.

  The east bound mail usually roared over the village about 1 o'clock inthe morning, speeding through the night at better than one hundred milesan hour. But that morning the mail plane had failed to go over. That, initself, was not unusual, for occasionally bad weather forced thecancellation of the trip. Tim, by careful inquiries, learned that oneold man, living about two miles from the village, had heard the sound ofa motor. His attention had been attracted by the high-pitched drone forthe song of the mail was a heavy throbbing that once heard is seldomforgotten.

  It had been mid-day before a farmer had found the wreckage of the mail,its pilot trapped in the cockpit, the registered mail sacks, with a bigshipment of currency, looted.

  Tim had enough material for his first story. Using the one long distancetelephone wire in the village, he got in touch with the News office inAtkinson and dictated a detailed story. To spice it up, he added a hintabout a mystery plane. It would make good reading.

  The flying reporter had scarcely finished telephoning when the heavythrobbing of the motor of a plane echoed from the clouds. Hurrying outinto the street from the telephone office, Tim could discern the ridinglights of a mail plane as the pilot, hunting for a place to land,circled over the village.

  Tim hired a car and sped toward the make-shift field where he hadmanaged to land his own plane. When he reached the pasture he hastilypiled some brush at one end of the field and set it afire. Then he racedfor the other end and swung the car around so that its headlightsoutlined the far boundary of the pasture.

  The roar of the mail plane's motor lessened as its pilot cut histhrottle and brought his craft down to earth. The big ship bounced andswayed, threatening once or twice to nose over, but the mail flyerjammed his wheel brakes on hard and succeeded in stopping before hecrashed into the fence.

  Tim left the car and hurried to meet the newcomer.

  "That you, Tim?" boomed a deep voice from the cockpit of the mail shipas the new arrival shut off his motor.

  Tim smiled. The voice was familiar and Tiny Lewis, who weighed some 250pounds, eased his bulk gently to the ground.

  "Thanks a lot, Tim," he roared. "I was sure in a pickle. Figured ongetting here before dark but made a forced landing about 50 miles backwhen two of the spark plugs fouled and I had to replace them."

  Before starting for the village, Tim and Lewis put tarpaulins over themotors of their planes and staked them securely lest some freakish windupset their craft.

  When they reached the little hotel and had ordered their dinner, Timtold Lewis all he knew about the wreck of the air mail. When he hadcompleted his story, Tiny whistled.

  "Looks bad," he admitted, "and I guess there isn't much that I can doexcept make arrangements here for them to crate up what's left of theplane and ship it in to Atkinson. The post office inspectors will behere sometime tomorrow and they'll take charge of the investigation."

  "I expected they'd be on hand," said Tim, "but I've got a little hunchall my own I'm going to see through to the finish. If it works out as Ihope, it will be a real scoop for the News."

  "Here's wishing you luck, Tim," said Tiny. "I'm going to roll in now. Iflew in from the west today with the mail and then they sent me on outhere. It's been a long day but I'll see you the first thing in themorning. Good night."

  "Good night, Tiny," replied Tim.

  After the mail flyer had lumbered up to his room, Tim went out to thehotel porch where he had laid the salvaged parts from the engine. Hepicked them up and lugged them up to his room. There, under the yellowlight from a kerosene lamp, he strained over the broken bits. When hefinally completed his minute examination, there was a grim smile on hislips.

  After breakfast with Lewis the next morning, Tim phoned the News office,and putting a bug in the managing editor's ear that he had stumbled ontoa real clue, got permission to free lance for the rest of the day.

  Tim carefully wrapped up the engine parts and carried them to the fieldwhere he loaded them into his plane. Lewis was busy supervisingoperations for the crating and shipping of the remains of the mail planeand with a wave of his hand, Tim dodged over the trees that bordered thepasture and headed for Prairie City, two hundred miles away, where thestate university was located.

  Noon found Tim closeted with the head of the engineering school of theuniversity, an international authority on electricity. Tim told hisstory in quick, clear sentences and in less than fifteen minutes thefamous scientist had a graphic picture of what must have taken place inthe midnight sky over the Cedar River valley.

  For two hours the flying reporter and the scientist worked behind closeddoors while messenger boys hurried to and from the telegraph offices,delivering telegrams that were eagerly grasped and hastily opened.

  By late afternoon Tim was winging his way back to Atkinson, a smile ofconquest lighting up his face. In his pocket was a paper with the secretof the destruction of the air mail plane, in his mind was a plan tocatch the sky bandits.

  When Tim reached Atkinson and entered the big editorial office of theNews, he found it deserted for it was early evening and the staff on anafternoon newspaper completes its work before 6 o'clock. A scrub woman,busy at one end of the long room, paid no attention to the flyingreporter as he sat down at his desk.

  Tim sat before his battered typewriter until far into the night,recording his strange story. He told how the mail plane, speedingthrough the night over the valley of the Cedar River, had fallenearthward in a death spin, its motor silent, its pilot paralyzed in hisseat while over the twisting, falling plane hovered its destroyer.

  In glowing language he pictured the scene that must have taken place. Aplane loitering in the night over the hills and valleys of the CedarRiver in the path of the air mail. Then the red and green lights of themail as it flashed out of the west, a quickening of the vulture's motor,a short dash through the night, a flash of invisible death, the mailplane careening down--a dead and fluttering thing.

  And Tim wrote more, much more--of how he had found the motor of the mailplane a congealed mass, the pilot's body a husk of a man, burned by apowerful but invisible electric ray.

  Still Tim went on. He told how the invisible ray recently invented andof which little was known, could be shot from a small gun. He describedhow he had consulted the famous scientist at the state university andhow together they had found that one of the few invisible ray guns inexistence had been stolen. This, concluded Tim, must be the weapon ofthe sky pirates.

  From then on Tim conjectured as to how one of the men in the banditplane must have taken to his parachute and followed the mail earthward,robbed the registered pouches of their fortune in currency, and escapedin a waiting car.

  He had just completed his story and was reading it over for correctionswhen the lights all over the editorial room flashed on and the managingeditor, who had dropped in on his way home from a theater, trotted up tohis desk.

  Carson was reputed to be capable of scenting a good story a mile awayand he devoured Tim's copy, but not without evident astonishment andseveral open expressions of his admiration for the flying reporter'swork.

  "It's great stuff, Tim, great stuff," exclaimed the managing editor whenhe had finished reading the story. "I'm glad I dropped in tonight. I'lledit it now and schedule it for the early mail editions tomorrow. Itwill certainly set the town talking."

  "I wish you wouldn't print that story tomorrow, Mr. Carson," said Tim.

  The managing editor, who had started for his desk, spun on his heels.

  "And why not?" he demanded. "Didn't you just tell me it was all right?"

  "The story is all right, Mr. Carson," explained Tim? "but if you printit tomorrow the gang responsible for the robbery
of the air mail willnever be captured. If you'll hold the story for twenty-four hoursthere's a good chance that they can be apprehended."

  "Not much," snorted the managing editor, "at least not as long as theyhave the death ray machine."

  "You're wrong there," persisted Tim. "It's not only possible that theycan be captured, but if you'll give me permission to use the News' planeI think I can turn the trick."

  Carson was too surprised for words and before the managing editor couldregain his poise Tim continued, driving his argument home. For over anhour they talked in low, strained voices, with Carson openly protestingat times as Tim explained his plan. Finally the managing editor gave hisconsent and Tim arose to go.

  "Good luck, Tim," said Carson, "I'll see the air mail people the firstthing in the morning and fix everything up for you."

  Dead tired, Tim went to his room and turned in, but sleep would notcome. Through the rest of the night his mind pictured the lurking banditplane, the helpless mail flyer, the death ray fired from the gun, andthen the bandit drifting earthward to feast on the spoils of thewreckage. Tim turned and tossed, enraged that men should stoop to suchvillainy, that an achievement of science should be turned to such lowends.

  All next day Tim and a crew of mechanics at the municipal field workeddesperately on the Lark in a secluded hangar. Carefully they sheathedthe motor cowling and the fuselage with thin layers of lead and zinc,alternately spreading them on for they were as thin as paper. Bynightfall the crimson plane was half gray with the cockpit and its vitalparts protected by the thin sheathing of metal.

  The Lark was ready for the test and the chances were that it would comethat night. The two previous nights had been clear as crystal with afull moon riding the sky. The pilots of the mysterious vulture of theair would not be abroad on such nights for the risk of detection wouldbe too great. Now, however, a thin cloud film at high altitude hadspread over the heavens, making an ideal night for another raid on theair mail. And there was no doubt in Tim's mind but that they would raidagain. They had not the slightest reason to believe that their secrethad been discovered and certainly the valuables carried nightly by themail plane would lure them into further attacks.

  Well, Tim was ready for them, but the thought of actually doing battlein the air gave him many a nervous chill as he waited that evening forthe time to go into action.

  A figure hurried across the field and toward the hangar.

  "Tim! Tim!" called an anxious voice.

  "Who is it?"

  "It's Ralph. Where are you?"

  "Here at the southeast corner of the hangar. Look out you don't fallinto the ditch."

  "Say Tim, what are you up to to-night?" demanded Ralph as he panted upto the hangar. "There are all kinds of wild rumors floating around theoffice. Carson's sitting at his desk watching the clock and gettingwhiter every minute."

  "I'm going to catch the gang that robbed the mail the other night," saidTim quietly. He hoped that his voice did not betray his emotion forinwardly he was seething with excitement. The waiting was what got onhis nerves. He was tense, eager to be in the air and away.

  "I had a sneaking idea that's what you were up to," said Ralph. "Countme in on the expedition," he continued. "I stopped at the police stationand borrowed one of Chief Flaherty's riot guns." From beneath thetopcoat which protected him from the raw night air, Ralph produced asawed-off shot gun, capable of scattering a veritable hail of lead inwhatever direction it was aimed.

  Tim laughed heartily at his friend's determination but his next wordswere not easy to say. Ralph and Tim had worked on many a story togetherand their bond of friendship was close, but Tim could not afford to riskany life other than his own.

  "I'm sorry, Ralph," he said, "but I can't take you along tonight. You'renot used to flying, and, besides, this is a one man game."

  "But Tim, something might happen to you," protested Ralph.

  "Something might," conceded Tim, "and then what would you do a couple ofthousand feet up in the air and traveling at 100 miles an hour? No,Ralph, not to-night."

  The roar of the mail coming in from the west halted their conversationand Tim turned to direct the work of the mechanics while Ralph,realizing his helplessness, watched the final preparations.

  Just as the mail trundled to a stop the lights on the field blinked out.There were shouts and calls for flashlights and a minute or two laterthe mechanics started their work of servicing the plane. In ten minutesit was ready to continue its eastward flight.

  The pilot, slouched in his cockpit, waved for the mechanics to pull theblocks and gave his ship full throttle. Down the field he sped, thenleaped into the air. His riding lights were disappearing in the eastwhen the field beacons flashed on again.

  Speeding into the night at one hundred miles an hour, Tim looked backand chuckled. In place of the regular mail plane, his own trim, fastlittle craft was rocketing eastward with dummy sacks of mail. It hadbeen carefully camouflaged to look like the regular plane and when thelights went out, the larger ship had been pushed into a hangar and Tim'swheeled out in its place.

  In less than another hour Tim would know just how good his theory andplans had been. He was willing to stake his life on them. The night airwas exhilarating. Tim didn't want to die; in fact, he had no intentionof doing so. As he raced through the scudding clouds, he carefullychecked his plans. Ahead of him two long black machine guns peered overthe edge of the cockpit.

  For nearly an hour the racy little ship flew through the half clearnight. When Tim sighted the curving light line that was the Cedar River,he eased the throttle. His greatest assignment was just ahead--if theair raiders were waiting!

  Tim cut his speed to that of the regular mail plane. His riding lightsglowed brightly. The young flyer tensed; eager for the test.

  Whrrrrrrr! A roaring black plane flashed from the clouds above, itpowerful motor spitting flame. Tim's heart leaped. His mind was racingmadly.

  The black plane bore down on him. Tim ducked, and the vulture of theskies stormed past. Tim's own plane held its course. He had escaped fromthe invisible death. Instead of falling, a wisp of humanity in alifeless plane, he was hard on the tail of the bandits' plane.

  Tim pushed his little craft hard. The bandits, amazed that the firstattempt had failed, were startled when the usually sluggish mail doubledits speed and took after them.

  The gap between the two planes closed rapidly. Tim, crouched behind hisguns and protected from the invisible rays by the lead and zinc whichcovered the cockpit, waited. Ahead loomed the black plane, its twoastonished occupants glancing back at him.

  Tim tripped his machine guns and a stream of tracer bullets, singingtheir song of death, streaked the blackness of night with threads ofsparkling crimson as they coursed through the sky.

  The black plane dodged this way and that, but always Tim was at theirheels. He flew with the fury of a man possessed. Again and again itseemed as though the black plane must be destroyed by the leaden hailbut each time its pilot managed to escape.

  Tim zoomed quickly, the nose of his ship pointing into the belly of thebandit craft. Suddenly, with a grinding chatter, his guns jammed and hisexultation became maddening disappointment. The chased became thechaser, and Tim was now on the defensive.

  His plane had withstood one attack of the death ray but a second timethe bandits might find a vulnerable spot. The pilot of the black shipquickly realized that Tim's guns had jammed and that his nervy pursuerwas at his mercy. He lost no time in banking swiftly to make quick workof Tim.

  The flying reporter, a desperate plan in his mind, cut his motor anddrifted. It was his only chance and Tim staked the success of hismidnight venture on a slender possibility. The bandit plane was stormingdown on him.

  Again Tim ducked, again the breathless moment and again the thincovering of lead and zinc saved him from death.

  The bandits, completely bewildered by the plane and pilot who defieddestruction, slowed down. It was Tim's chance. Savagely he jammed thethrottle on full.
The Lark leaped and quivered, a roaring, pulsatingking of the air. It was eating up the space separating the two planes.Tim's brain was in a whirl. Did he dare, would he succeed, what wouldhappen if he failed? But the die was cast; he was almost on the blackdestroyer.

  Hastily he loosened his safety belt, climbed to the edge of the cockpitand before the startled bandits could aim their death ray gun at him,leaped into space.

  Then the planes crashed. As Tim floated downward, his parachutebillowing out above, he heard the scream of breaking wires, the crash ofstruts, the last wild, defiant roar of speeding motors as his own planeate its way into the other. To his left Tim could see two otherparachutes drifting earthward. The bandits had not been caught in thecrash!