Sparks and Bronson roared away, flame shooting from the exhausts of their motors. Then Tim shoved his throttle ahead and sent the Lark skimming into the air. Behind him came White and Wilkins. Away into the west they sped, traveling on the wings of the dawn, intent on their quest for the missing Perkins.
Within the hour they had roared over Newton, nestled in the foothills of the Great Smokies, and had started clawing for altitude. The Lark handled beautifully in the cool air of the early September morning and answered to Tim’s every movement.
The flying reporter could see Sparks and Bronson swing away to his left while White and Wilkins turned to the right to cover the territory which Hunter had mapped out for each plane. Tim was more fortunate than the other flyers for he had Ralph’s keen eyes to help him comb the uneven ground below. Ahead of them loomed the Billy Goat, the highest peak of the range. Tim’s sector was on the east slope of the lofty mountain. Up and down, back and forth, Tim swung the Lark as he shuttled along the path usually followed by the air mail and express planes. The Billy Goat glistened in the morning sun but smiled grimly—almost defiantly Tim imagined, as it thwarted his every effort to find any trace of the missing plane.
By mid-forenoon Tim’s gas supply was getting low and he signalled to Ralph that he was going to turn back to Newton and replenish his fuel. They were near the top of Billy Goat and both Tim and Ralph felt certain that if Perkins had crashed on that side of the mountain they would have sighted him.
Tim cut his motor and let the Lark soar gracefully downward from the summit of the range. For a moment he forgot the urgent mission which had brought them out and reveled in the sheer joy of flying. Like a great bird his plane wheeled and swooped in the sky.
Half way to Newton Tim was joined by Sparks and White. They landed at the emergency field at the foothill town and a few minutes later were joined by Bronson and Wilkins. There was no need to ask about their success. Their faces told the story of the failure of their efforts.
While the other pilots were refueling their planes, Tim hurried into the village where he secured a basket of sandwiches. He made several inquiries in the village and related the result of these when he returned to the field.
The airmen sprawled beneath their planes and hastily munched the sandwiches Tim had provided.
“You say he went through here on time?” asked White, who had been a close friend of the missing Perkins.
“That’s what they say in Newton,” replied Tim. “The storm was threatening when Perk went over and he was flying pretty low and fast. About half an hour after he passed, the storm swept down from Billy Goat and from what folks here say, it was a bad one.”