“If the little kid is like her he must be a rip-snorter,” was his mental comment. He saw that his enemies were so close together when he made the maneuver they had to make a wide turn or collide with each other. That gave the Flying Buddy a few brief moments to gain distance and glancing over the side he saw that they were within a few miles of the plain which lay like a long ribbon of light sand beyond the edge of the foot hills. He put on a bit more speed and in a minute they were over the sandy stretch which would make a better landing place than the jagged mountains, unless he happened to come down on one of the vast stretches of cactus which dotted the desert. He knew that there were great beds of the low growing plant with small leaves but long, sharp thorns; also there were acres of giant plants as tall as trees with blades strong and sharp as sword points.
Soon the enemy ships were flying at him in a sort of military formation, and close together. They were probably signaling messages and a plan of attack for they must know that the Flying Buddy would slip through their fingers if he got away with many more tricks. On they came and they spread out. A fan-like rain of flashes revealed the machine gunner in the lead, and the shot sprayed Jim’s plane in half a dozen places. She shivered under the attack, then the boy shut off the motor and let her slide into a tail spin. For a second she hovered uncertainly, then began to bob and bow this way and that, but soon she was whirling downward like a falling leaf. The wind over the desert was strong, holding her up, but she cut through.
As they made the perilous descent in rings, Austin caught glimpses of the three pilots watching. He ducked his head forward as if he was at least badly wounded, and he pulled Mrs. Gonzalas into a limp heap. His eyes, or one of them was on the control board, and his apparently lifeless hand close to the instruments. The stick was between his knees and his heel was on the rudder-bar ready to get into instant action before they really took a header into the ground, and he prayed fervently that the men in the rear cock-pit were also “playing dead,” or behaving becomingly for the occasion. Perhaps the enemy would think their task was accomplished and rush off toward Amy-Ran. As Arto had been an aviator in the war he would probably understand the present maneuver and not only play his own part, but coach his brother. The pointer on the altimeter spun around, one hundred feet, another, one hundred and fifty. They were going more quickly.
In the silence of their own machine, the motors of the others could be heard distinctly, and Jim’s heart skipped a beat as one of them turned about and rushed off. It was evident that he at least was satisfied that they had downed their prey and he wasn’t wasting time on postmortems. If the others, particularly the one carrying the machine gun would only take things as easily! He flipped the machine on her back and into as long a glide as possible, which wasn’t at all unnatural. Every airman had seen planes act that way; as if they hesitated and hovered hoping to escape the inevitable crash. From that inverted position the boy could have shouted with joy as he saw the second machine turn swiftly and roar off toward the mountains. He too was convinced that the work was finished and he was heading for the fastness as hard as he could go. But the third plane, although it was circling against the sky toward the rocks and away from the scene of the smash-up did not pass over the rim. The altimeter sent its needle around in warning circles; they could not fall much further, but on they went. They were only five hundred feet from the ground and Jim tipped a bit for fear the position would injure Mrs. Gonzalas, whose face was flushed with the blood that had rushed to her head.
“Stand it a bit longer?” he asked.
“Si,” she answered bravely, but he didn’t require her to endure the strain more than a moment. They had passed beyond the rim of a low fold of sand hills, and there the boy felt sure that it would be safe for him to come to. Even against the white sand, the aviator, whose motor was racing, could not possibly distinguish from that distance what they were doing, so he righted the machine, let her glide on, and to his great joy he saw they would land on the hillside and that would slide them further. The wheels struck a smooth, hard surface, for which the boy was mighty thankful. It meant they hadn’t landed in one of the dreaded cactus beds, also that they wouldn’t sink into the ground. He could hear the machine getting further away, its engines waking the echoes, so he gave his own plane the gun to keep it from running into unseen danger.
The wide desert stretched before them, with its dark patches of shadows undefined in the moonlight. He couldn’t tell whether they were rocks, dunes, or plants, but wisdom urged him to get above them quickly and he lost no time. Flying close to the ground, his eyes straining for threatening obstacles, they raced forward. Occasionally he glanced back toward the rim of the mountains but saw no one in pursuit. He was too low to choke off his engine even for a moment, then Arto spoke into his ear.
“We will observe for their return.”
“Thanks. All right back there?”
“Much right. You are a great flyer. The marvelous Col. Lindbergh, he comes from America, he would say you are the gooseberries.”