Smoke coming from a chimney of the ranch house gave him his wind direction and he dropped down on the meadow to make a careful survey. The field, although covered by six or seven inches of snow, appeared level.
Tim gunned the motor, banked sharply, and fishtailed down. The mail plane landed hard, bounced on a low ridge, threatened to dig its nose into a drift, and finally straightened out, coming to a standstill not more than ten feet from a barbed wire fence.
The flying reporter unfastened his safety belt and stood up in the cockpit. His legs ached with the cold, which had crept through his heavy boots and clothing to chill the very marrow of his bones.
Half a dozen cowboys plowed through the drifted snow. They greeted Tim with cheery cries.
“You’re off the trail, Big Boy,” said the first cowboy to reach the plane.
“I’m all right,” replied Tim, “But I’ve been out all morning looking for one of the air mail ships that was lost in the blizzard last night.”
“Someone get caught in the mountains?” another cowboy asked.
“Two planes,” replied Tim. “One of them was the westbound ship and the other was eastbound. They were last heard from just before the blizzard closed down.”
“Gosh,” said the first cowboy, “The Great Smokies are a tough bunch of hills for anyone to be caught in a storm.”
“We’ve got two planes out searching for them,” explained Tim. “I ran low on gas and thought maybe you fellows would have some at the ranch you could spare. It would save me a long trip back to Atkinson.”