The pilot, his senses recovered, but suffering, spoke up. “Old Ti-O-Ga? Why, yes. Get him. I’ve heard of him.”[[1]]
“Go with the gentleman, Garry,” Don suggested. “When he has done his telephoning he may let you get the airport and tell Uncle Bruce what has happened to us.”
Garry went away while Don remained with the pilot, keeping his flares going for light and on the chance that a passing automobile on the adjacent road might stop and go for a physician. Don was not deeply impressed by the offer of Indian aid.
Garry returned very quickly.
“I got the airport,” he told his chum. “They were worried about us, and of course your uncle feels badly because we still have the mail.”
“I’m going to signal a passing car,” Don said. “If I can get the driver to take me to some place where I can get fuel, I’ll fly back.”
“I’ll stay with the pilot,” Garry volunteered. Don had no trouble in inducing a motorist to give him a “lift” to a garage at some distance. Ti-O-Ga came in a car while Don was gone. Old, but straight and sturdy, the Indian surprised Garry: he arrived in a Ford, wore American clothes and, if reticent, spoke to the point.
“Drink!” he ordered the pilot, offering a small cup of liquid taken from the car. The pilot, putting the liquid down his throat, sat in his cockpit quietly for a moment.
“Say!” he exclaimed, “that’s great stuff, Big Chief!”
“You feel like walk?”