“And another thing,” added the attendant. “There was a secret-service flier here this morning already. After them. A nice-looking chap, in a gray monoplane.”
“Could it have been Mr. Chase?” demanded Dot.
“Yeah. I think that was the name.... Well, he crossed the border, hot on their trail. Shouldn’t be surprised if he had ’em by now, for he flew a fast plane!”
The news was encouraging, so after a bite of lunch and a hasty inspection, the girls flew away again, heading south now, avoiding the Gulf of California, and crossing over into Mexico.
They passed over the California river and continued an easterly course, avoiding the mountains near the coast, and pointing inland before they turned southeast again. From their height in the air they could not see the ground without glasses, but as Linda dipped lower, they could distinguish how barren and desolate it was. There were no trees; only short, stumpy underbrush scattered about, with big patches of bare, hard earth between. A most unattractive part of the country.
The engine of the plane continued to throb evenly; it was in perfect condition. At least, Linda thought, her plane was giving her no worry. But then, planes were more like automobiles now; the accidents were oftener due to the pilots themselves than to faulty motors.... But thus far, she had accomplished nothing. There had been no sign of an autogiro, or indeed of any kind of plane, since they left Arizona.
“We may be flying too high,” she remarked, as the hours passed without any success. “I’m afraid to dip too low with this plane.”
“Yes, that must be the trouble,” responded her companion. “They could come down amongst those bushes and camp for the night, and we’d never see them. It seems like a wild-goose chase to me.”
“You don’t want to give up?”
“No, not as long as we can get any news at all. And they can’t go on forever without gas. They’ll have to stop at airports every once in a while to refuel, and then they’ll be caught.”