Noon found Tim deep in the fastnesses of the mountains, searching obscure pockets and canyons, then roaring along thinly forested slopes where a motor failure would have spelled instant destruction.
One o’clock.
Two o’clock.
Still there was no trace of the missing plane.
The sun had cleared away the clouds of the morning and the visibility was good. The air was a little warmer but Tim was forced to beat his arms against his body to keep them from stiffening in the cold.
The supply of gasoline he had obtained at the ranch was getting low when he knew that he was near the end of the search. There was just enough to explore a distant tier of peaks that swung off to his right. Not much chance of the mail being that far off the regular airway but he didn’t dare let any possibility escape.
Tim scanned the broken walls of rock ahead. There seemed little chance that a pilot could escape if his plane crashed in such a country.
The flying reporter was about to abandon his search when something on the crest of a jagged ridge drew his attention. He swung the mail ship nearer and circled down for a closer view. It looked—it looked—yes, it was, the tail of an air mail plane sticking up above the rocks.
Tim stood up in the cockpit and cried aloud. He had found the eastbound mail!
Was there a chance that the pilot had survived the crash? The question raced through Tim’s mind and he sent the air mail plane hurtling downward.