“This is like one of those nightmares where you’re being chased by a wild animal and your legs move in slow motion,” Sandy gasped, churning through the snow.
They reached the trees just before the plane swooped over them again. Crouching behind a tree bole, Charley emptied his rifle at the retreating ship. A slug splattered the bark just above his head.
This time as the plane climbed, a thin spiral of smoke trailed back from the engine, and the rhythm of the motor was uneven.
Sandy let out a cheer. “You got him, Charley! Good shooting.”
Immediately the plane broke off its attack and headed north. Sandy led the way down the road to where the three geologists were standing by the station wagon, watching the ship dwindle to a speck in the distance.
“Are you okay, Dad?” he yelled anxiously. “Anybody hurt?”
“No, just badly frightened,” Dr. Steele replied. “How about you fellows?”
“No casualties,” Sandy reported breathlessly. “Just a bullet hole in the windshield.”
“It seems as if Charley saved the day,” Professor Crowell said. He took one of the Indian’s big hands in both of his. “I’m glad you decided to come along, my friend.”
Charley gave him one of his rare, quick smiles. “Bad men try hurt you—” He paused and drew a finger across his throat.