The aeroplane pilot gripped his levers anew and the machine rolled upward on the air billows, while Art’s nerves tingled with the joy of the chase.
“Make a swing and come back!” he suddenly exclaimed. “There’s something in a furrow. It’s one of ’em!”
Without looking, Bonner made a wide swing and turned over the brow of the rise.
“It is!” almost shouted Art. “It’s one of ’em! But he’s on his side. I can’t make out his number. You couldn’t see him twenty yards away.” He turned and twisted to keep his glasses on the half buried figure. “He saw us. He’s on. He ain’t moved an inch. Try again.”
Twice more the sputtering aeroplane circled over the lifeless looking figure, each time flying lower.
“I’m sure it’s Nick Apthorp,” whispered Art, “but I can’t get his number.”
“Well,” replied Bonner, “we’d better give some one the tip.”
Three white staffs were in sight. Bonner headed the dipping aeroplane toward the nearest one. When it was seen that the aeroplane spies had caught the watching Wolf’s eye, Art waved his hat. The Wolf with the flag, Colly Craighead, responded by dipping his pennant and then, as the hawk-like aeroplane banked again and mounted skyward over the higher field, Colly set out on a dead run.
When the motionless figure came in sight again Art crouched low in his seat. Directly above the silent figure Art’s arm shot out and a small bag dropped swiftly to the plowed ground beneath. A cloud of white arose and, ten feet from the concealed Coyote, the rich black soil glared out in a spot of snow white flour.
“He sees it,” shouted Art. “Colly’s got his measure all right. I guess we’ve nailed two hard ones, anyway.”