“There has been a fight!” cried Don. “Did you find anybody—see anything?”
“No!” answered Don, “but—listen!”
As the thunder reverberated and echoed, followed by a deep silence, pounding feet came along the path they had recently used, from the promontory. They turned, staring into the South, the light coming at their backs from the sky fires.
A man in a pilot’s helmet and jacket, corduroy trousers and high boots, running in a staggering, uneven course, with an arm swinging limp at his side, hailed them.
“Help!——”
The figure stopped, wavering, and crumpled on the earth.
Swiftly Don and Garry ran to the man who lay prone on the sod.
“Oh!” he moaned, and then, recovering slightly, he gasped, “can you get me to—doctor?—hurt—inside!”
“It’s the mail ’plane pilot!” cried Don.
He saw his duty, and there was scant time in which to do it.