Alden was just a little under an hour of fast flying from Bellevue and Andy opened the Ace up until they were skimming through the half clear night at a hundred and twenty miles an hour. The lights of Bellevue disappeared as if blotted out by the hand of an unseen giant and they were alone in the sky.
Andy had plotted a compass course and he followed it closely for Alden was tucked away in the mountains and he could easily miss the village if slightly off course.
By the end of the first half hour the clouds had cleared and a thin moon tried vainly to dissipate the blackness of the night. Lights on the ground were few and far between with midnight almost at hand. The air was raw and Andy snuggled deeper into the sheepskin he had donned for the trip. He checked the time and compass again. Alden should show on the horizon any moment if his calculations were correct. Another two minutes passed and he sighted a glow of light to the left. He nosed the Ace over and dropped lower.
Lights below flashed on and off. He blinked his riding lights and those on the ground answered. There was no way of detecting the direction of the light wind and Andy had to take a chance that there were no bad ground currents. He skimmed over the field to determine its length. It appeared to be on a side-hill for level stretches of land were few and far between in that section of the state. The field was long enough for an easy landing and he cut the motor and slid down the invisible trail.
He was going in too fast and he opened the throttle and zoomed into the sky for another try. The second time he stalled all the way down, drifted over the top of the car whose lights marked the near end of the field, and dropped to an easy landing. He swung the Ace around and taxied back over the uneven field. A group was waiting when they climbed down from the cockpits.
Fred Hacke, the editor, stepped up and introduced himself. With him was Sheriff Jud Barnes, a six foot two man of the mountains who was proud of his great, booming voice.
“Get in my car,” said the sheriff, “and I’ll run you over to the hill where that airplane busted.”
For half an hour they bounced over a rough mountain road and were glad enough when the sheriff stopped the car and led the way through a patch of timber. The grade was steep and they were compelled to rest several times. Finally they came to a small clearing, crossed this and just beyond saw a darker mass against the trees. The sheriff turned his flashlight on a tangled pile of cloth and metal, the broken remnants of the machine Andy had chased only a few hours before.
The editor and his party came up and they made a thorough inspection of the wreckage. Motor numbers and the name of the maker had been filed away, the plates on the fuselage had been removed and every means of absolute identification taken off. In spite of this Andy and the secret service agent were positive that the plane was of Rubanian make and that an agent of the Gerka had been at the controls when it had been sighted at Bellevue.
“We haven’t found the flyer yet,” said the sheriff. “Maybe he spilled out somewhere before the wreck. We’ll search the hills in the morning.”