Tim opened a black leather case in the forward cockpit and swung a sub-machine gun over the side of the plane. They had come prepared for any emergency for both of them realized that the men they sought would stop at nothing to make their escape.
The biplane shrieked down on its unsuspecting quarry, flashing out of the heavens like an avenging eagle.
Intuition must have caused Pierre Petard to glance over his shoulder just in time to see Hunter preparing for the final swoop. They saw Pierre reach quickly and tap Sam on the shoulder.
Instantly the man in the forward cockpit turned and in another second a light machine gun, similar to the one Tim held, belched a stream of bullets at them.
Sam’s aim was good and the bullets traced a wicked line along one wing, coming ever closer to the fuselage. But it was for only a second.
Hunter was a master of the air and he sent his plane into a screaming dive that ended only when he was under the other plane and in a position for Tim to pour a hail of bullets into the fuselage of the ship above them.
The bandit plane veered sharply and for a second Tim had a clear shot at the propeller. The bullets from the machine gun shattered the whirling blade and the air was full of bits of wood.
Hunter pulled his own ship into the clear and they watched anxiously while Pierre attempted to bring his damaged plane to a safe landing. It fluttered down like a crippled bird, turning this way and that, now limping along for a few feet and then abruptly dropping away until it seemed inevitable that it should end in a deadly tailspin.
“They’ll make it all right,” cried Tim. “They’re heading for that big pasture,” and he pointed to a large field.
Hunter gave the biplane full throttle and sped earthward at a daredevil pace. They must beat the bandit ship down. The field manager sideslipped into the pasture and set his plane down hard. Tim leaped from the cockpit, his machine gun freshly loaded and ready for action. Hunter, a repeating rifle in hand, joined him.