For an hour they searched the side of the range south of Billy Goat, and Tim, with an eye on the gas gauge, was about to give up the quest, when Ralph shouted and pointed downward.
A flash of white on a rocky ledge caught Tim’s eye and he circled lower. His breath caught sharply. Ralph’s sharp eyes had found the wreck of the air express. On a ledge of rock cropping out from the side of the mountain they could see the twisted remains of the plane!
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tim stalled down over the wreck of the air mail. There was no sign of life; no sign of Perk. His heart caught in his throat. Perk had been a mighty good flyer and a good fellow. Tim bad known him only casually but he had been well liked by all the other pilots in the air service. There was a chance that the airman, unharmed in the crackup, might have started to make his way out of the wilderness of broken rock and tangled forest on foot.
Tim made a careful survey of the shelf that jutted out from the mountain side. It was not more than 100 feet wide and perhaps 400 feet long—a dangerous place on which to attempt a landing.
The flying reporter shut off his motor.
“What do you say?” he shouted at Ralph, and pointed to the ledge.
“Go on,” came the reply. “You’ll make it all right.”
Tim tore off his goggles and Ralph did likewise. No use endangering their eyes if they crashed.
The flying reporter put the Lark into a sideslip. Just before they slid into the side of the mountain he leveled off and set the plane down almost on the edge of the rocky shelf. The ship bounded forward and he shoved the brakes on hard. They were still going fast, too fast. In a few more seconds they would pile up on the rocks ahead. Tim jammed his left wheel brake on hard and released the right one. The plane staggered, dug its left wing into the ground and almost did a ground loop. But the maneuver killed the speed and Ralph and Tim leaped from their plane and ran toward the wreck of the air mail.