The next morning found them at the field, ready for the departure of the westbound express. Hunter, worried and anxious, was on hand. Every plane which the Sky Hawk destroyed meant a loss of $25,000 and he could see a year’s profits gone in a week unless someone solved the secret of the Sky Hawk’s power.
Tim was warming up the Good News but turned for a final word from Ralph.
“Fly high and keep well behind us,” instructed his chum. “If anything goes wrong with our ship, cut your motor, listen for the hum of another plane, but don’t try to follow it. Beat it for the ground and pull what’s left of us clear of the machine.”
“And don’t,” he added as an after thought, “dive through any queer looking clouds which may be near our plane if we’re struck down.”
With that Ralph hurried into the cockpit of the waiting express ship where he crowded in beside the pilot. In another minute both planes were winging their way into the west, the motors barking in the cold winter air.
The trip was uneventful and four hours later the planes roared down on the snow covered field at Lytton, the western terminal of the transcontinental’s southwestern division.
“Too clear. We need clouds to catch the Sky Hawk,” was the only explanation Ralph would make when Tim asked him about the trip.
The next day Ralph looked at the winter sky, studded with scurrying wind-swept clouds.
“We’ll go with the express,” he informed Hunter over the phone. “The Sky Hawk will strike today and we want to be on the job.”
Ralph lapsed into a grim silence as Tim and the pilot of the express ship prepared their planes for the takeoff on the eastbound trip. Within a few hours, perhaps minutes, the Sky Hawk would strike again. Just where and how he could only guess. He was pitting his nerve and brains against the craft of a master crook. The decision was in the balance.