“All you have to do is to sit perfectly still; and don’t offer to do anything to help me. If I want any assistance I’ll sing out for it,” was the way the pilot of the biplane laid down the law; and Buckskin promised faithfully that he would adhere to the rules of the game to the letter.
The start was made just as perfectly as before, and then Frank began to perform a number of simple evolutions before making a try for altitude.
The dazed cowboy may have had a smile on his face all the while, but it was of the kind that won’t come off, virtually frozen there. He clutched the seat with rigid fingers, and stared out straight to where in the distance he could see the summit of Mount Baker, said to be seven thousand feet high, but which he believed was far below his lofty eyrie.
Once, when he did catch faint yells from the crowd so far below him, Buckskin mustered up assurance enough to take off his hat, and wave it several times; but never once would he look straight down toward where the others were cheering him to the echo. When finally, after a whole lot of turning, until his senses fairly reeled, he heard Frank say that they were nearly through, the scared cowboy regained courage enough to send a sickly grin down at his comrades. Of course Frank would not think of volplaning with a greenhorn aboard, as the chances were, he would take fright and either leap out under the impression that they were bound to have a smash-up anyhow, or else make some frantic move that would endanger the very lives of both occupants of the biplane.
And so they landed as neatly as any pilot of an air craft could possibly do. The relieved Buckskin almost dazed, managed to drop from his perch, his hands to be warmly shaken by his chums, while they assured him that he had done the whole outfit proud by his recent gallant act.
But it might have been noticed that Buckskin never again ventured to accompany either one of the Bird boys aloft. He vowed that it was the finest experience he had ever known, and one that he would not have missed for a fortune; but all the same, he knew when he had had enough; and the other fellows could try their hands at copying the old eagle, if they wished; the land was good enough for him, all right. After the business of the day had been completed the aeroplane was once more successfully stowed away in its handy hangar, which was amply large enough to accommodate it even when the planes were extended.
It was just at this time Mr. Witherspoon beckoned Frank and Andy to cross over to where he was standing, having come out of the house.
“Please give me a few minutes of your time, boys,” he said gravely, “something has happened since you went up that seems to possibly throw a light on what happened last night,” and a minute later, as the three sat down in his little office or den, the genial rancher went on to remark, “tell me, was the name of that evil genius of yours, who tried all he could to injure you two, Percy Carberry, or something like that?”
CHAPTER IX—FIGURING IT ALL OUT
“What’s that you say, Uncle Jethro?” exclaimed Andy, his face wreathed in an expression of sheer astonishment; for it gave him a tremendous shock to hear that nightmare of a name, Percy, mentioned away out here in Arizona.