“I’d better head straight for Atkinson when I take off,” he said. “Two of the boys will have to stay here and I’ll bring the two who go with me back to the ranch in the morning.”
“That’s all right with us,” agreed Cummins. “Curly and I will make the trip with you and Boots and Jim can stay here tonight. In the morning they can go back and bring down the mail. The boys from the ranch will meet them with horses sometime in the forenoon.”
Boots and Jim took armsful of the pine fagots and hurried down the clearing. They placed flaming torches to light to take off and Tim started the motor while Cummins and Curly crawled into the mail compartment to look after Lewis.
Tim exercised great care in warming up the motor. It must not fail him when he called on it to lift the heavy plane into the night sky. Finally satisfied that the motor was functioning perfectly, Tim settled himself in the cockpit and opened the throttle. The narrow clearing, dimly outlined by the uncertain light of the pine torches, was none too long. The mail plane started slowly, then gathered speed and flashed into the night.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Tim fought the controls as the mail plane careened down the clearing in the dim light of the blazing pine torches. He heard, faintly, the encouraging shouts of Boots and Jim as they cheered for a successful takeoff.
The odds were terrific. The clearing was barely long enough for a takeoff with the best of conditions. The ground was uneven and the snow materially checked his speed. Tim waited until the end of the clearing loomed. Then he pulled back on the stick and jerked the plane off the ground. They zoomed into the night sky and Tim breathed easier, but only for a second. The motor missed and he felt the loss of flying speed. He instantly switched to the other magneto and the motor resumed its rhythmic firing. It was just in time for the plane had dropped dangerously low.
Tim circled over the clearing, got his directions, and then headed in a direct airline for Atkinson. The mail plane hurtled through the night at one hundred thirty miles an hour, its maximum speed, and Tim pushed it every mile of the way.
It was hard work piloting the mail for every muscle and bone in his body cried with fatigue. The long hours in the air, and the struggle up and down the mountain had sapped his energy. In spite of the cold, he found it hard to keep awake.
The motor droned steadily and its song lulled Tim into a dangerous state of lassitude. His eyes grew heavy and once or twice he caught himself dozing.