“Why—why—” he started. “By golly, man,” he almost shouted, “there’s not a thing wrong with this sky-blue ship except that this control wire is snapped. Pedro didn’t stop to examine it, the boob!” Already he was taking out his pliers. “We’ll be up in the air in less than fifteen minutes.”
He fixed the wire in record time, he and Saxton straightened up the plane, pushed it back toward the machine gun bowlder for a longer take-off, and a few seconds later the motor was whirring.
“Just a minute,” called back Bill, as he disappeared behind the bowlder. He returned with the machine gun and started to lift it into the cockpit.
“It won’t be rigged up as snug as my old Browning,” he explained; “but it can shoot, and there’s a drum in it already. And this ship looks like a lulu. If I don’t overtake that grease ball before he gets to the border my name isn’t Lucky Bill Barlow. This toy comet ought to be able to do a hundred and a half going backward.”
At Valmora, on the way to the border, Bill throttled his motor and began to volplane.
“What’s the idea?” asked Saxton.
“Wait!” Bill commanded. He made the landing.
“Get out, old pal,” he told the banker. “I’m alone this time, boy. Cesar is alone, and this is my ship, and the war is solo from this minute, until I come back with the dough.”
He stuck out his hand and patted Saxton on the shoulder.
“So long, old pal,” he said. Then he gave ’er the gun and the sky-blue monoplane went roaring down the field.