“Let go,” shouted Frank.
“Hey! hold on, young feller,” cried the sheriff, starting to scramble out. Harry seized him just in time, for the Golden Eagle shot upward like an arrow under the full power of her hundred-horse engine.
“Say, young tenderfeet, Tom Meade ain’t no coward; but no more of this fer me if I ever git out of this alive,” gasped the sheriff.
“Oh, you’ll get used to it in a minute and enjoy it,” laughed Harry. “Say, Frank, muffle those exhausts, will you? They make so much racket you can’t hear yourself think.”
Frank cut in on the muffler, and instantly the noise sank to the soft droning purr of the perfectly working engine.
“Wall, if this don’t beat lynching horse thieves,” remarked the sheriff admiringly as the aeroplane rushed through the air. He was much reassured by the absence of noise that had ensued when the muffler came into action.
“You’ll have to be our guide, sheriff,” said Frank suddenly. “Where do I steer for White Willow?”
“Wait a minute, young feller! I’m all flabbergasted. Ah, now I’ve got it—aim right for that thar dip in the Saw-buck foothills. That’s it, and when you open up old Baldy between it and Bar Mountain, then you’re right on a line for it.”
In a few minutes Frank sighted the peaks named, and following directions, they soon saw a huddle of huts dumped down on the prairie a short distance from them.
“That’s White Willow,” said the sheriff.