"Then we're in a hell of a pickle," Barrett told him gloomily. "Because they're faster than us. They're catching us now. Hold your hat, keed! Here it comes!"
And with his warning, it came! The first chattering snarl of machine-gun fire from the foremost of their pursuers. Lead ripped and slashed at the fleeing Curtis; above the roar of the motor shrilled the spang! of metal on metal; Ramey saw a crazy, zigzag line appear miraculously in the cowling above him, heard the thin, high, disappointed whine of ricochetting bullets. Again he tugged, kicked. His 'plane leaped, darted to the right. Red grunted.
"Whew! That was close! One more like that—"
As if his words were an omen, another burst screamed about their ears. And the lethal cacophony was doubled, now; the second of their three attackers had found the range. The little ship seemed to jerk like a live thing as fiery pellets pierced its skin. It was only a matter of minutes before one of those bullets would find a vital spot, Ramey knew. No use continuing this unequal battle. Knuckles white on the stick, he yelled to his companion:
"Okay, Red—bail out! They can't land here. Maybe we can get away on the ground. Red! Red!"
Then, as there came neither answering word nor movement, he shot a quick glance at his buddy. One look told the story. Red did not move because he could not. Limp as a bag of sodden meal, he lay slumped in his seat, eyes closed, arms dangling uselessly at his sides. And in horrible contrast to the pallor of his cheeks, his face was mottled with a spreading nastiness that matched the color of his hair!
It was at that moment a sort of madness seized Ramey Winters.
He was a soldier, aware of, and daily accepting, the hazards of his calling. He had seen death often; had several times heard whispering within inches of his own ears the sigh of the ancient scythe. It did not sicken him to see men die, nor was he afraid to die himself....