He managed to convey his thoughts to Cranny Beaumont.
The big lad nodded vigorously; his face clouded over with the gravest apprehension. It was certain that the balloon could not clear such a towering summit.
It was hard for the lads to feel that, although so near to their companions of the air, they were absolutely helpless to render them the slightest assistance. Their gaze was fixed on the great yellowish hull drifting some distance below them, a plaything of the capricious wind which urged it every moment toward the great white barrier.
The biplane was shooting past again, rocking in the gusts of wind, or shaken by convulsive tremors. The aviator and his passenger could see, gathered at the foremost end of the dirigible’s car, not two figures, but three.
The passage of the “Ogden II” so close above, however, seemed to pass unnoticed, as though the three could think of nothing but the great danger which confronted them.
“There’s still time, if the wind would only change!” cried Bob.
Consideration for their own safety denied them a chance to look again. The cross-currents tore and whirled against the planes; it was a time when navigation of the air required a cool head and steady hand.
Bob Somers’ face wore a look of resolute courage. He had confidence in his ability to weather the elements and pilot the craft over the mountains to the plains beyond. But what would be the fate of the “Border City”? The wind showed no signs of veering back to its original quarter.
A prey to doubts and fears, he held the biplane on a steady course, watching the incline of the mountain, as it seemingly slipped up toward them, and the frowning, snow-clad crags, close by, which they were about to pass. It was an awe-inspiring picture of the wilderness, solemn and grim, with its darkened atmosphere and canopy of somber clouds.