“You’re the doctor,” laughed Tim. “Don’t blame me if you get pretty cold on the flight to the mountains.”
Extra blankets for the punchers who would stay in the Great Smokies were stowed aboard and a haversack of food was handed up to the plane. Then willing hands swung the mail ship around, Tim opened the throttle, and they bounced over the meadow and into the air.
In a little more than half an hour Tim circled over the only level ground on the side of the mountain. There was a long, narrow gash that appeared smooth enough for a landing and he set the mail ship down cautiously. The first time he overshot the mark and had to try again. On the second attempt he made a perfect three point and killed his speed quickly.
Tim shut off the motor and climbed out of his cockpit. The cowboys tumbled down from the mail compartment while Cummins tossed the blankets, rope and hand axes after them.
The mail plane was rolled to some nearby trees and securely lashed down. Tim was taking no chances on a sudden wind destroying their means of escape from the mountains.
After making sure that the plane was safe, they started the long climb up the mountain. At times they moved rapidly, especially where the wind had swept the snow off the rocks. But again their progress was heart-breaking, deep drifts forcing them to fight for every foot of headway.
Up and up they climbed, stopping only occasionally to rest. The cowboys were in good physical condition and Tim was glad that he kept himself in shape. The strenuous climb might have killed a man who was not sound in heart and lungs.
The last, long climb was in sight when they stopped for a short rest.
“Boy,” sputtered Curly, “I’m glad I’m not a mail pilot. Believe me, I’ll stay on the ground and chase the dogies. Think of smashing up in a place like this.”
“It is pretty wild,” admitted Tim, “but the boys don’t crack up very often.”