Just over the mountain, two companies of the rebel army had returned to the scene of their abject defeat at the hands of the Marines a week before.
Their purpose was to reclaim their dead now that they were certain the Marines had left that particular sector.
As they prepared to descend the steep mountain to the corral below, one of them looked to the west and saw the spiral of smoke and the lone plane with its nose turned earthward.
“Americano weeth bad motor, mebe?” one of the group said in broken English.
The others smiled and, without further ado, turned in their tracks and started up the mountain, prepared to open a surprise attack upon the helpless airman going toward the swamps below.
Panama finally effected a landing in a spot not far from where Lefty was standing, watching the pilot’s descent.
As the ship touched earth, the boy ran forward, his heart filled with mute gratitude, though still unaware as to the identity of his rescuer.
The sergeant jumped out of the cockpit and inspected his landing gear, pushing back his goggles for a better view just as the boy came up alongside of the fuselage.
Before either of them could speak, a sharp crack was heard and Panama fell to the ground, a victim from a bandit’s bullet.
The rebels were now lined up on the ridge of the mountain, prepared to descend and after killing the other Marine, capture the plane.