The two faces before her lighted as though a cloud were lifted from them. “Oh, Elizabeth, thank you!” breathed Lucy from the depths of her grateful heart. “I knew you’d——” Her words broke off in a quick gasp. Roused by the stir about her she had again glanced upward. Another airplane was falling to the earth, whirling down through the clear air on one helpless broken wing.
The battle had begun to shift south again, toward Cantigny, but, in the hot fighting of the past few minutes, Bob failed to notice that they were no longer directly above Château-Plessis. Jourdin had sent down one of his antagonists, and Bob tried hard to do as much for Von Arnheim, but without success. Jourdin still eluding him, the German turned all his attention to the young American. Never until that moment had Bob fully realized Von Arnheim’s skill and coolness. His own movements, lightning-like as they had seemed before, became suddenly slow and clumsy, while a swift and deadly fire enveloped him from the enemy swooping and dodging alongside.
He himself dodged, fell in a tail-spin, then rose again, vainly seeking to throw Von Arnheim off or get him within range. The stream of bullets from his own machine gun scarcely touched the little plane that circled like a gnat around him, never an instant still. Bob’s heart began to pound in his ears, and his cool brain grew furious and desperate. Unable to endure the galling fire which was cutting his wings and beating against the body of his plane, he determined to risk a rush at his pursuer. Suddenly the nose of a monoplane shot up in front of him. As Bob’s tense fingers felt for the trigger of his second gun the stranger pilot gave a shout, and Larry Eaton’s eyes looked into his. Never was help more welcome. Bob’s courage soared again, and while Larry pumped bullets on Von Arnheim’s flank, Bob climbed swiftly, and, once above his enemy, at last turned an effective fire upon him.
Von Arnheim dodged in a graceful circle, turning this time upon Larry with undiminished vigor. Bob saw that his friend was no more able than himself to withstand these tactics. He shot downward to Larry’s help, and, diving between the two planes, delivered a heavy burst of fire on Von Arnheim’s right, just as the German had got into range to make an end of his new adversary.
Larry’s blue eyes flashed acknowledgment to Bob, as Von Arnheim, staggered for the moment, sank in a tail-spin, seeking a chance to reload. Bob did not follow him. With frantic haste he reloaded both his guns, feeling cautiously of his left wrist, where a bullet had grazed it. A German Fokker had swooped down upon Larry, and Bob, after one quick glance about him at the airplanes darting in and out among the light clouds, made for the new enemy’s left. A German Albatross scout was flying toward Larry on the other side, and Bob thought to engage the Fokker himself, and give Larry a chance for a fair fight with the newcomer. At that instant he heard the familiar crackling of machine-gun fire directly above, and, looking up, saw Von Arnheim coming down upon him.
He dropped, his spin becoming a spiral dive that sent him down a thousand feet, but still the German followed. Bob darted to one side and rose at top speed, looking for the friendly shelter of a cloud. There was none near enough to give him a moment’s respite. As he maneuvered his starboard gun into range, resolved to retreat no longer, Von Arnheim, rushing upon him from a slightly higher level, drew his pistol and leveled it at Bob’s head. In that breath of time a monoplane, swooping like a hawk from above, came between Von Arnheim and his prey with a mastery equal to the German’s own. Jourdin’s fire struck Von Arnheim full on the flank—impossible to withstand. He dropped like a plummet, avoiding new attack by a zigzag fall, as Bob and Jourdin closely followed. The three were almost on a level. Jourdin glanced keenly in Bob’s direction, for Bob’s left wing was badly riddled. At that instant Von Arnheim, quick as a flash of light, leaned forward and discharged his pistol at the Frenchman’s breast.
Bob did not know that he cried out. Overcome with grief and horror, he saw Jourdin fall helplessly against his gun. The little monoplane, abandoned by its pilot, reeled and tilted. Bob flung his arm up to shut out the sight, but at the sound of a propeller near at hand he raised his head and looked dizzily about him. With one hand he felt blindly for his trigger. Jourdin had fallen, and close to Bob Von Arnheim was circling into range, the light of triumph in his eyes. Bob’s troubled glance had hardly rested on his enemy when Larry Eaton, stealing up from below, opened a burst of fire upon Von Arnheim’s rear. In that instant, without Larry’s interference, Bob would have unresistingly met Jourdin’s fate. But as the German turned on his new aggressor, the despair that had held Bob paralyzed gave way before a new emotion. Never in his life had he felt anything like the spirit of indomitable purpose that surged now within him. His face grew hard and pale, his eyes flashed like Von Arnheim’s own, and with a swift, light touch on his control stick, he flew after Larry in the German’s wake.
One thing Bob was sure of. He would send Von Arnheim down or fall himself. Both of them could not survive this battle. He thought coolly and quickly now, every sense on guard as he stole up behind his enemy. The German was beating off Larry’s pursuit with steady firing. Larry would try to rush closer in another moment, Bob thought, planning how to take his friend’s place in the duel. For Larry’s plane was not flying well. It veered too much at a turn of the rudder, and Bob looked at the wings to see if they were badly torn. As he looked, Larry’s plane began to sway and the propeller’s speed slackened. Engine trouble, Bob guessed now, and gave a shout of warning. The next moment the engine stopped dead, and Larry, abandoning his attack, was forced to volplane down as best he could for a landing.
Von Arnheim followed, firing at the helpless plane in its swift descent, but before he had dived a hundred feet Bob was beside him. All sense of his own danger had vanished as completely as though he were invulnerable to Von Arnheim’s skill. With careful aim he fired full at the body of the German plane. It quivered and tilted while Von Arnheim, oblivious to his damaged left wing, returned the attack by a withering blast of fire. The bullets sprayed Bob’s little monoplane. His riddled right wing began to bend and sag. The instruments on the board in front of him were smashed to atoms. Von Arnheim had dodged again and was behind him. Bob flashed a glance at his own wings and thought he could risk one loop. Without lessening his speed he turned completely over, and darting up behind Von Arnheim in a swift and skilful maneuver discharged his port gun, from a distance of a few yards, on the right wing and rudder.
With a throb of glorious triumph he saw the German plane pitch forward. Unable to recover, it fluttered a moment, vainly struggling for life, then plunged down toward the green fields below. Bob leaned out and watched it crash against the earth. Then, panting a little, he rubbed one hand across his forehead and looked about him. He had left the other fighters behind. No new enemy threatened him, and fortunately, for his plane would hardly answer the rudder. The right wing was a mass of flying ribbons, and the cockpit was dented and hammered in by countless bullets. Even protected by its metal sides, he could not think how he had escaped unhurt. One hand was bleeding, but the wound was only a trifle. He began cautiously flying down, fearing to put his damaged wings to the pressure of high speed. His one thought now was to reach Jourdin’s side. He might have fallen in some lonely spot where no one would come to him. By the look of the country beneath him, Bob guessed that he was somewhere near Cantigny. He picked out a level bit of ground and glided safely to the grass.