“I might as well make plans to start first thing in the morning,” said Tim, “and if you’ll lend me a bucket of dope, I’ll paint out the sign on the side of my plane. It would be fatal to go barging into Mexico with that kind of an identification for everyone to shoot at.”
Captain Talbot agreed to let Tim have all the material he needed and also assigned a mechanic to help him. By late afternoon the Good News had been completely disguised and some fake bullet holes, to indicate a clash with the border patrol, were made in the wings and the fuselage.
Tim had decided on the role he would play. He intended to stake the success or failure of his plan on a bold approach of Lopez’ camp, where he would present himself as a free lance flyer ready to join the rebel cause.
The next morning Tim secured the latest information on the whereabouts of the rebel chieftain and found that Lopez was near Cedros, three hundred miles south of the border and well into the mountains of Sonora. From that guarded retreat he was directing his army while his flyers made raids on the federal troops who were massing for an attack on his mountain stronghold.
With the good wishes of the border patrolmen ringing in his ears, Tim took off from the field at Nogales and headed south, following the line of the Southern Pacific of Mexico. For a hundred miles he followed this course, then angled southeast. In a little more than two hours and a half he was well into the mountains, and according to his map, should be nearing Cedros, the village where Lopez had established his headquarters.
A sharp droning caught Tim’s attention and he turned to find a black monoplane bearing down on him. Twin machine guns, mounted on the cowling, were belching tracer bullets in his direction. One thing sure, Lopez’ watchdogs of the clouds were on the alert.
Tim had no intention of being shot down and although he was confident the Good News could outrun and out-maneuver the other plane, he concluded he might just as well start his little game. He gripped the stick between his knees and held his hands above his head as the other plane overhauled him.
The pilot of the black craft stopped his chattering guns and motioned for Tim to precede him through a gap in the mountains. In less than five minutes they were over the sheltered valley where the village of Cedros nestled close to the mountain-side. It was an ideal retreat for the rebel chieftain, practically inaccessible to the federal troops and easily defended from the air.
Tim, obeying orders from the other pilot, landed in a small field a short distance from the village. He shut off his motor and waited for his captor to approach. The pilot of the black monoplane was a chunky little man with fiery red hair and watery blue eyes.
“What are you doing down here?” he demanded, as he came up to Tim’s plane. He carried a revolver strapped to his waist but made no motion toward it. “You’re nothing but a youngster,” he added.