He must see out. If they moved forward in the direction they were headed they would be forced out over the ocean, away from the sky bandits’ retreat. That camp was somewhere in this range of mountains. He had a hunch that it was not far away. If he succeeded in his mission he must keep the mountains in view and make a search when the frenzy of the storm had passed.
Nevertheless he moved with slow deliberation. He pasted a small strip of inch-thick Balsa wood beneath the wipers on the window, lighted two candles and stuck them on the Balsa shelf thus made. It was dangerous—deadly dangerous. If the storm shot a flash of that blaze into the gas tank the end would be instantaneous. He smiled grimly, and nodded at his sister. The girl bowed her head in acquiescence. She also realized the danger of a flame of fire at this time.
The heat of the candles warmed the window and the wipers began to move, clearing the space for visibility.
His observations were useless. All he could see was a world of whirling snow and ice.
He sought altitude. But the higher he ascended the fiercer grew the storm. Then he nosed down slowly until he stood a thousand feet above the highest mountain. Then he slowed his engines and allowed the storm to push him backwards. He was seeking the neighborhood where he had last seen the Greyhound.
Again he turned his eyes on Joan. She was taking the battle like a Trojan.
“You are very brave,” he said gently.
“And the boy with me is not a coward,” she replied softly.
She gave him her hand, and there was not a tremble in it.
“I have lost our reckoning, but——”