CHAPTER XVIII.
TRAILS THAT CROSSED.
When the biplane bearing Chief Roque and Billy Barry cleared the mountain top, the pilot and observer had a fixed understanding that every Russian camp was to be given a wide berth, for with fuel tanks going dry it would have been the top of folly to invite a long chase from the Muscovite airmen. And then, too, it was no part of a safe and sane program to risk an enforced descent in hostile domain.
"Keep her nose southward," commanded Roque, "and we may find the Austrian lines before we have lost our power. It's a desperate chance, of course, but there is nothing else to be done."
A precious hour was consumed in fruitless flight, with never a cheering sign of the friendly forces sought by the anxious aviators.
"It has just dawned upon me that our army has again entrenched in the mountains, for we could not possibly have come so far in the open without a single sight that would encourage further search in this direction."
Roque trained his glasses to the east, where the snow-capped peaks of the Carpathians were showing in the dim distance.
"It's a good forty miles in that turn," figured Billy, "and whether we can make it or not with an inch or two of petrol is a close guess."
"Make a try for it, and count on the wind to help."
The mind of the chief was set on this last throw.
One satisfaction to Billy in this change of course was the definite objective—hit or miss, they were no longer wandering.