"And he's circling down for it," cried Fly.
"That's his roost, I'll bet," exclaimed Jerry.
"Then it must be the Thunder Bird Carl told about—the one you saw when I tried to take that picture—the one that raised the storm," jabbered Fred disjointedly.
"And the one the old Indian is after," put in Gray.
"Let him roost, and then we'll get him," suggested Herb.
But Hawke had altered his course, and was making swiftly in the direction of home.
"Where you going?" shouted Fly in surprise. It had been necessary for them to raise their voices considerably, for the mountain torrents were distinctly heard below, while the noise of their own machine added made hearing difficult.
"We've got to get right back," responded the aviator, throwing on top speed.
"What—what for?" yelled Gray. "We nearly had him."
"There's a wind rising, and I felt a splash of rain," returned the aviator. "We can't take chances over these peaks in a storm."