They alternated carrying the stretcher and the torches and made fair progress. When their supply of pine pieces ran low they were forced to call a halt while Boots and Jim hunted up a clump of pines and secured a new supply.
The trip down the mountains required three hours and it was eleven o’clock when they finally staggered into the clearing that sheltered the waiting mail plane.
When they let the stretcher down, they heard the injured flyer groan. Tim bent low over Lewis.
“Where am I? What’s happened?” demanded the air mail pilot, his voice little more than a whisper.
“You crashed in the storm,” replied Tim. “We found you in the Great Smokies and are getting ready to take you back to Atkinson. How do you feel?”
“Kind of smashed up inside,” whispered Lewis.
“Hang on a couple of hours longer and we’ll have you in a hospital,” smiled Tim. “How about it, old man?”
“Sure, Sure,” was the low reply.
The cowboys helped Tim wheel the mail plane around and head it down the narrow clearing. Then they lifted Lewis into the mail compartment and onto the bed they had prepared for him.
Tim turned to the owner of the Circle Four.