Out from the low, rough ranch-house, as they landed, came running a thin-faced, frightened woman, and her old maid daughter. Both were dressed in calico. They carried shotguns.
“Lieutenant Adeler—God bless you!” the mother shouted. “We were afraid the rebels were going to get us. Two have been sneaking around here.”
“We’ll watch for them. Have you some spare fence-wire?” asked Jack Adeler, quickly.
They stared in astonishment at such a question, but ran in and helped carry out several reels of wire.
Without saying a word, Hike and the Lieutenant began twisting this into a long, thin, strong rope, and binding one end to the gate-posts. The other end was hitched by a dozen small, twisted wires to the freight-platform of the Hustle, and immediately the machine plunged up into the air, with its steel “knife-string” glistening like silver as it uncoiled below them.
The fence-wire rope was three hundred feet long, but they shut off the motor at two hundred feet up. Instantly the Hustle floated along on the breeze, and came to a quiet halt when the anchor-rope drew tight.
Hike and Adeler held their breaths. Would the machine come tumbling down? Or would she become a kite? She did become a kite.
She floated up there, tugging at the rope, and swinging a little with each breath of wind, but safe and contented, shining in the sunlight.
“Bully, Hike, old man!” cried the Lieutenant. “You’ve given us our watch-tower.”
From even two hundred feet up, they could see miles across the desert, and they watched for the rebel bands, through field glasses. Three times they saw dust-clouds in the distance, but each time the riders veered way off to the west as they made out the threatening tetrahedral poised in air.