“We’ll investigate!” he roared, in reply.
Happy in the thought that their midnight mission had been so successful, he changed the course of the “Ogden II,” heading toward the tiny beacon which flared and fluttered, and constantly brightened, against the greenish-gray background.
With a long, thrilling downward swoop, the biplane shot ahead, while the jagged mountain crests which hemmed them in rose higher and higher. Presently they were skimming across a patch of timber at a sufficiently low altitude to see a number of tethered bronchos wildly prancing about and several dusky figures evidently staring toward them.
Bob Somers shut off all power for an instant, allowing the machine to volplane. The earth seemed to be racing toward them with terrible rapidity.
Above the rush and hum of the wind striking against the planes he heard a medley of ringing shouts.
Both boys knew those voices, and, highly delighted, both answered with telling effect before the roar of the motor once more drowned all other sounds.
Bob Somers eagerly scanned the valley, determining to make a landing if possible. After circling about in all directions, he at length discovered a comparatively level stretch overgrown with waving bunch-grass.
“Just the place; it ought not to be difficult,” he reflected.
Cranny Beaumont understood his significant look.
“Sure thing, Bob!” he yelled in his ear.