CHAPTER XIV
Down the road from the corral, Kurt chugged homeward in his crude little car. He had the manner of one whose heart is heavy, but whose resolution was still invincible.
A strange unaccustomed sound, a faint, far-away buzzing made him glance upward. Two sharp winged points were skimming through the air. He felt a thrill—the thrill of the unknown. He knew it must be one of the craft, foreign as yet to the hill country. In the distance he saw it swirl, loop and maneuver, spiral gracefully downward, skim the earth lightly, rise again and then descend from sight hidden by one of the hills.
In a few moments he saw it ascending again. It passed over him—so high up that it seemed but of bird size.
He was startled—lifted momentarily and dazedly from his plodding existence.
He had read of these ships of the air, but their reality had not been borne in on him until now.
He went on to the house. Three children rushed at him with football fury.
“Attaboy!” he cried, catching up Billy. “What is it?”
“Mother is in town with father and Mr. Hebler. Father just telephoned—”
Kurt had the feeling of something lifted—of help at hand.