Chapter XVIII
THE ELEPHANT GUN
Shortly after daybreak that morning, Bill Bolton spiralled his small two-seater down to a crosswind landing on a field back of Pawling, New York. The monoplane bumped onward over the rough stubble for a few yards and stopped.
Bill stripped off his headphone and turning in his seat, faced toward Osceola and Ashton Sanborn who were wedged into the rear cockpit. The field, though comparatively level, was high on the mountain side. From where he sat he had a lovely view of a wide valley and a village nestling amid the trees near the base of the mountain. But Bill ignored the view. He seemed rather put out this morning.
“Well, here we are,” he announced grumpily. “I hope you’re pleased. Orders are orders, but if you ask me, Mr. Sanborn, I think it’s the bunk.”
The two aft got out of the cockpit and Sanborn walked forward to Bill who was glaring at the instrument board.
“Sorry, old man,” the detective held out his hand. “Won’t you wish me luck?”
Bill turned his head quickly and smiled at his friend. “Of course I will, Mr. Sanborn,” his tones carried sincerity. “Here’s the best of luck to you, and a full bag!”
They shook hands. “I know,” said Sanborn, “that both you and Osceola feel badly about this. But you two fellows constitute our rear guard—and believe me when I say that you’re undertaking a very grave responsibility.”
Osceola came up and laid an affectionate hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Good hunting, boss. Neither Bill nor I are ever quite ourselves so early in the morning, and especially so after a heavy night.”
“Oh, I know I’m a grouch today.” Bill laughed, though not very convincingly. “But it’s a disappointment, after what we three have been through on this business, not to be in at the finish. Don’t apologize for me, Osceola. I know I’m acting like a spoiled kid—I’ll get over it after a while.”