“Can’t be, unless they think we found it.” He moved the speaking tube to attend more strictly to business. There were no clouds to help them and Jim glanced at the chart. In a little while they would be above the plain out of the way of the rugged hills where coming down was so terribly dangerous. Keeping alert and watching tensely he held the stick, his left hand on the control board, and saw the two machines coming closer together with his own nose pointed directly between them. On and on they went, then he banked sharply and veered to the right so that he would pass on the outside of the pair, and with a quick twist, he zoomed higher and tore on, leveled off and raced forward. A minute later he had passed the first machine, and he glanced over his shoulder, but the third one was almost on his tail.
“Let him come up,” Arto said in his ear, so the Flying Buddy decreased his speed somewhat, glancing back to see just how close the other fellow was coming.
“Crack! crack!” Two shots spat out from the rear cock-pit, and almost immediately two more. Again Jim glanced back and he saw that the nearest machine was still tearing almost upon him. Four more shots rang out from the guns of the Gonzalas’, then the nearest plane wobbled as if the pilot had been hit.
“You have a gun,” Mrs. Gonzalas shouted. “Give it to me, I can shoot it.” He fished it out of his pocket and handed it over, looking first to be sure that it was ready for use.
They tore on and Jim saw the woman holding the weapon efficiently in her hand and was glad to see that she had been taught to handle it. On they went, and then, he saw a machine racing almost beside him. The guns cracked again but as far as the boy could see they did no real damage but it flashed through his mind that the pilots were not alarmed at the firing. They merely kept out of range.
“One is mounting his machine gun—on the right,” Arto announced.
Jim glanced about and saw that this was so and he knew that in a moment they would be racked with a hail of lead. He tipped his nose down to a sharp angle, and dived steeply a thousand feet, leveled off and went on. It seemed to the boy as if he had been flying for an eternity and they would never get anywhere. They had nearly reached the plain and he took a survey about him. The plane with the machine gun was almost directly over him.
“Hang on,” he yelled, then did a backward loop and as they came up he could see two of the machines rushing some distance ahead, but the third one was right beside him. Crack, went the Gonzalas’ guns from the rear, and crack, crack, crack, came a fusillade from the pursuer, but it wasn’t a machine gun. One shot splintered the rim of the forward cock-pit, and again Jim dived.
“Duck,” he roared to his companion, fearing that she would be hit by a bullet. He couldn’t expect to dodge forever, for one well directed shot would cripple the plane he was flying. The two planes were circling back, and Jim did another loop; coming up behind the three of them then he zoomed at top speed toward the ceiling, for each dive had made his position more dangerous. He could see the others start to follow but he went on at top speed, and soon he was well up in the heavens, where the pale stars seemed to blink in puzzled wonder at the desperate struggle going on under their noses.
The meter read twenty-thousand feet before the Flying Buddy brought the machine into a less steep angle, but he still climbed. Calculating hastily he found they were only slightly out of their course, then at thirty-thousand feet, he leveled off and rushed forward. Glancing back he was delighted to see that he had gained considerably on the other machines, but they showed no inclination to stop. The boy wondered if the firing would attract the attention of anyone below, but even if it did he could hardly expect help to reach him.