“No, he didn’t. We kept close coming down with him and we could see him foolin’ round, like he was trying to get control again and put the fire out. He acted like he didn’t notice how fast he was shootin’ till he almost hit.”
“Yes—well?”
“We were right with him to pick him up if he was alive, but he landed on a farmer’s hay stack; it must have been dry as powder, for the whole thing went up in smoke in less than five minutes. I’m telling you the truth. We couldn’t get him out and he didn’t use his chute.” The fellow’s jaw protruded, and then two other men came toward the light.
“He’s givin’ you the goods straight, Cardow. We carried out orders exactly like we were told, and if the kid had jumped, we’d have got him safe, but he didn’t and that’s that.”
During this recital Jim frowned in puzzled wonder, and even though the first man had said “Caldwell,” the boy did not immediately grasp the fact that it was Bob, his Flying Buddy they were discussing, then, it went over him as if someone had given him a powerful blow that shook his whole body. Queer flashes of light shot through his brain and before his eyes. His throat seemed to swell until he felt as if he were being strangled, while a cold clammy perspiration oozed from every pore in his body, as he realized what they were saying. Bob was dead! Burned in a blazing plane that landed on a haystack! His body swayed, and then he was conscious that Arto’s arm was supporting him.
“Get hold of yourself,” the man whispered huskily. “You know the boy they got?”
“He’s my brother—my step brother—my Buddy—”
“Easy—listen—perhaps it is a trick they have made up to scare you into talking of what you do not want to tell,” Arto suggested.
“Perhaps it is—but I guess not—Oh!”
“Brace yourself, old man. Close we will watch and perhaps the morning will find us in changed positions. Be ready! I have found that for my wrist this hand-cuff is large. With it off, that will help. Keep close to my brother, so I can speak to him. When the time comes, these pigs shall pay—”