Spears figured that, provided Judith’s estimate of time was correct, Buchanan would have covered about forty miles. She thought that the crime had been committed about one o’clock. He was flying a few miles west of the railroad, in the belief that his prey would strike a straight course for the border. With all his heart the grim-faced pilot hoped that they might find him. Time after time the tableau in the barren little office arose before his eyes, momentarily blotting out the flat green panorama below. With every fiber of him he craved personal vengeance—the opportunity to wreak punishment on the man who had left a girl bound and gagged to watch over her all but dead father.
Twenty minutes out, both men redoubled the minute care with which they searched the ground, which was like a painted curtain half a mile below. It was Trowbridge who suddenly grasped the stick and rocked the ship back and forth exultantly.
Spears turned and his eyes followed the Sheriff’s pointing finger. Sure enough, there was a mounted man crossing a tiny clearing, two or three miles to the westward. Without cutting his motor, Spears nosed down.
Struts vibrated madly, and wires shrilled to the terrific speed of the ship as it darted earthward. Little by little, Spears shot downward in a tight spiral, the pivot point of which was the now galloping figure below. Like some prehistoric monster circling for a kill, the De Haviland roared earthward.
Little by little, Spears shot downward toward the galloping figure below
As he reduced the motor revolutions to a thousand, Spears frequently jazzed the throttle to keep the spark-plugs from fouling with oil. In a moment he would need every bit of the Liberty’s four hundred and fifty horsepower—and need it without a second’s delay on the motor’s part.
At two hundred feet, half a mile back of Buchanan, who was now invisible, Spears shoved the throttle wide open. The motor sputtered a moment, and then caught. The ship hurtled across the mesquit like a drab brown comet. The sensation of speed so close to the ground was tremendous. In a few seconds they flashed across a wildly galloping horse carrying a man whose upturned face was a smudge of white.
Spears, hunched down behind the wind shield, turned his head and glanced inquiringly at his passenger. Trowbridge nodded violently.
Spears banked so suddenly that it threw the Sheriff against the side of his cock-pit. The De Haviland swept around to the left, mushing slightly because of its terrific speed. Sleepy kept it nosed down until it was scraping the tops of the mesquit trees as he straightened out once more.