“Has East Point got any minion of the law?” he asked.
“Has East Point got any minion of the law?” he asked.
“Just Ballardson,” returned Gail, with that little chuckle that Hemingwood so enjoyed hearing.
The pilot laughed aloud, and Gail joined him.
“So the prominent bootlegger is peace officer, eh?” chortled Hemingwood. “That’s what I call a real tight corporation.”
“He’s pretty good at the job, aside from the moonshine, too,” the girl told him.
The stars winked into being, and before long a thin moon rose above the mountains. They talked casually of many things, with an undercurrent of friendly understanding that seemed like the result of long acquaintance. Hemingwood learned that his estimate of her was correct. She had finished college the year before and was spending a year in East Point because of the ill health of her aunt and likewise because her own rather drawn condition as a result of hectic college years.
“I tried to study all day and dance all night and it didn’t work,” she admitted. “But I had a good time! I haven’t minded it so much up here, but I’ll be glad to get back. Week-ends in Louisville once or twice a month have been about all that kept me from dying of dry rot this winter. Flyers don’t drop in every day.”
“They don’t know you’re here,” he told her. “After I spread the news they’ll be flying in here in coveys.”
Apperson came back and disappeared into the tent. Hemingwood was to take the first watch. At nine o’clock Gail got to her feet and announced that she must be going. Hemingwood walked over to the fence with her. Pegasus was tethered there.
As their hands clasped in parting and he looked down into her upturned face he obeyed an irresistible impulse and leaned over to kiss her.
She slipped away, laughing.
“We’re getting along wonderfully, but not that well,” she chuckled, and swung aboard Pegasus. “Good night. And if you have any more fights I hope you win them!”
He stood and watched her as Pegasus ambled along the moonlit road. Just before they entered the deep shadow of the trees she turned in the saddle and threw him a parting smile and waved. She seemed, at that moment, like some little goddess disappearing from mortal eyes into the impenetrable darkness of the forest.
He walked back to the ship slowly and sat in the cockpit. His Colt was ready to his hand, and the shadowed mountains clustering around him seemed doubly mysterious, even menacing, under the blanket of the night. They seemed to be whispering with all the bloody legends of the mountain country and to be vibrant with some of the passion and untamable wildness of the people whom they sheltered.
And yet George Arlington Hemingwood, a lonely watchman in the midst of all-pervading silence, was thinking, not of what might happen with his enemies, but rather of what the future might hold forth for himself and Gail Morgan.
According to instructions, Apperson awakened him at eight o’clock. At nine they had consumed coffee and bread, and were ready to take off.
It was a delicate job on the rolling field, but again it was accomplished safely, and the ship cleared the surrounding trees by a good fifty feet. As it roared out over the forest Hemingwood held it low, pointing for the little schoolhouse where Gail presided. It was on the outskirts of the mountain settlement called “The Hollows.” As he passed over it he jazzed the throttle twice. He saw Gail thrust her head out of a window and wave her handkerchief. He returned the greeting with his free arm. There was a pleasant warmth in his heart as he circled back and left the schoolhouse behind.
The ship was barely three hundred feet high, so he nosed up in a steep climb. His right arm was draped carelessly over the side of the cockpit, and his eyes swept the ground idly.
Suddenly he felt a jerk at his ankle. He dropped his eyes, and in utter surprise saw a clean gash on the inner side of his right boot sole. He moved his foot slightly and saw a hole in the wooden flooring of the cockpit. The next second he saw gas jetting forth from a jagged hole in the small copper tube which was the gasoline feed line between main tank and carburetor. The Liberty’s roar died away into sputtering, and then silence. And down below there was nothing but impenetrable forest into which to crash.
Hemingwood reached automatically for the mainline petcock, and turned off the gas. Then he turned on the petcock which released the gas from the emergency tank, holding the ship in a dive to maintain flying speed.
For agonizing seconds the motor did not catch and the ship was diving like a comet for the earth. Hemingwood cursed steadily, fluently. He had been shot at from the ground and, by dumb luck, they had hit the fast moving target. There was nothing for it but to crash. What the hell was the matter with that gravity tank? If he could get his hands on the blankety-blank marksmen!
Then he saw them. There were five of them, partially hidden, and they were still shooting. He could see the smoke from their rifles. Unseen and unheard above the whining wires, there were bullets zipping through the air around him.
There was two hundred feet of altitude left. With his usually boyish face suddenly grim and hard, Hemingwood swooped around and made the dive more steep. Might as well use that last little margin to teachthosebirds a lesson!
His finger was on the machine gun control as he pointed the ship at them. And at that second the gravity tank got working and the motor cut in. There was thirty minutes’ gas in that tank, plenty to get back to the field with.
Hemingwood came to himself. Even his unemotional soul revolted at the thought of pouring a hail of death on the five would-be murderers below. But he did dive down at them, carefully aiming a bit beyond them, and his machine guns spouted fire and a hail of bullets which ripped up the trees a few dozen yards away from them.
Hemingwood came to himself. Even his unemotional soul revolted at the thought of pouring a hail of death on the five would-be murderers below. But he did dive down at them, carefully aiming a bit beyond them, and his machine guns spouted fire and a hail of bullets which ripped up the trees a few dozen yards away from them.
He barely brought the quivering, strained ship out of the dive in time to clear the treetops. He turned again, and for the next five minutes terrorized the hiding mountaineers with showers of lead all around them.
“Now let ’em see whether they’ve got any stomach to keep fiddling around,” he grinned, as he swept back toward the field.
His rancor was all gone, now that he was safe. It was something of a game to him.
They fixed the mainline by means of a spare rubber connection they had brought along, and got in a good five hours of work, landing shortly after two o’clock. Apperson, seemingly entirely unshaken by the events of the morning, had a suggestion to make. He led Hemingwood to one side, so that Mumford, there with the gas, could not overhear anything, and said:
“Let’s dispense with lunch, sir-r-r. This is bonny weather. And it may be the mornin’s events’ll scare ’em off, or maybe they’ll try again. So the queecker we get through the better, to my mind.”
To which Hemingwood assented. There were but a few onlookers this time, and seemingly the sound of the shooting had not been noticed. Mumford did not mention anything about the events of the morning, either, so Hemingwood decided that it was a secret between himself and those five men on the ground. Which was just as well, he reflected. He did not particularly care for the news to spread that he had attempted to shoot up five mountaineers.
They worked until after four o’clock, and once again Mumford was waiting with a new supply of gas. He seemed a bit more openly friendly now, and announced that Mrs. Mumford and Gail would again oblige with supper.
They arrived in due time, along with Pegasus, the buckboard, and a big basket of provender, but left almost immediately after the meal was over. Mrs. Mumford, it appeared, was president of the Mental Improvement Society of East Point, which was to meet that evening to weigh the merits of English poetry from Chaucer to Masefield, and Gail was to sing.
Hemingwood did not mention the incident of the morning to Gail. There was nothing of the grandstander in him and he did not want her to worry about it. After they had gone he and Apperson smoked and talked and watched the moon come up. At ten o’clock Apperson, who was to take the last watch again, was knocking out his pipe preparatory to retiring when Hemingwood became aware of the fact that a horse was undoubtedly galloping toward them, and coming fast. They waited by the fence, hands on their guns.
It was Gail Morgan, and Pegasus was a badly winded steed as she guided him up to the fence.
“Did you shoot anybody this morning?” she asked breathlessly.
Hemingwood, a tingle of excitement running up and down his spine, told her briefly what had happened.
“You hit Jim Calley!” she told him. “He must have been one of those men—they’re all Calleys over there. Jim must have been a little away from the others so that you got him. Anyway, they are coming over tonight to get you!”
“May I ask how you know?” Hemingwood asked easily.
Apperson was listening quietly, his empty pipe upside down in his mouth.
“Mrs. Tuttle, a woman I nursed when she was sick, sent her little boy to tell me. To these people, the fact that you and I have been friendly means that we must be sweethearts, so she wanted to warn me. She isn’t a Calley herself, although she’s kin to them.”
Gail was talking with breathless speed, as though laboring under almost unbearable tension. She went on: “I came right up, without telling a soul. You’d better start for East Point right off.”
“No, I guess we’ll have to guard the old ship, Gail.”
“But you don’t know these Calleys! They’re bad! What chance will you have against six men? I didn’t know what to do. All the men in East Point are either with them or afraid of them. It would be suicide for anyone like my uncle to take a hand in it, Lieutenant Hemingwood. But you could come down to East Point for the night, and—”
“No! We’ll stay. And there’s nothing to worry about,” declared Hemingwood. “Gail, you’re a brick. You’re a whole mansion of bricks. Now you turn right around and gallop home before you get mixed in it yourself. I’ll thank you later.”
“No! We’ll stay. And there’s nothing to worry about,” declared Hemingwood. “Gail, you’re a brick. You’re a whole mansion of bricks. Now you turn right around and gallop home before you get mixed in it yourself. I’ll thank you later.”
“You can’t stay!” she said, the hint of a sob in her voice. “I tell you those Calleys—”
“Please run along, Gail. And I tell you we’ll be all right. If I didn’t think so. I’d light out. I’m not hankering to commit suicide.”
Finally, after Hemingwood had outlined his plans, she did go, but not before she had exhausted every means of persuasion at her command. Hemingwood had a hard time to keep her from staying nearby to see what happened and then she announced that she’d tell her uncle and that they would both be back, which Hemingwood likewise vetoed.
“Please be careful!” she whispered finally, leaning over a trifle. “And if there’s any way you can, will you let me know that everything has come out all right? I couldn’t close my eyes until I know—”
“Sure. Now for the love of Mike, pretty lady, beat it!”
She had not disappeared from sight before Hemingwood and Apperson were busy. A big rock, protruding two feet above the ground, was the cornerstone of their defense. The ship was standing by the fence, the tent thirty feet away from it and ten feet from the edge of the forest. The rock was in a corner of the field nearest the road, perhaps forty feet from both tent and ship.
They worked with breathless haste, carrying the fence rails over to the rock and constructing their barricade. In a half hour they had a small, three sided fortification of which the rock formed the apex facing the tent, where Hemingwood figured most of the action would take place, if any. The machine guns were useless—there was no time to dismount them.
He was right about the scene of battle. Less than half an hour from the time they had ensconced themselves in their shelter, lying flat on the ground, they heard a rustling in the bushes behind the tent. Although the moonlight was flooding the world in silver radiance, they could see no signs of the men they knew were there.
For taut minutes there was utter silence. Hemingwood wondered whether the low structure of rails and rock behind which they were hidden would catch the marauders’ eyes and scare them off. He hoped it would, but the chances were against it.
It was fully ten minutes before six ghostly figures, long rifles in hand, slipped out of the bushes and started to surround the tent. Hemingwood acted before any of them went out of sight behind it.
He shot his Colt in the air, and shouted, “Drop your guns! Hands up!”
“Quick!” bellowed Apperson, to let them know there was more than one gun trained on them.
For an instant six men, vague in the moonlight, stood like statues. Hemingwood shot again, shouting at the same time: “Next shot I’ll get someone! Drop those guns!”
The utter surprise of it and the terrifying effect of those two shots from unseen marksmen did the trick. The mountaineers were a bit too far from the shelter of the forest to risk a break for it against unknown odds. Their rifles dropped to the ground and six pairs of hands thrust slowly into the air.
For a moment Hemingwood was up against a problem. He knew in his heart that if those mountaineers had the nerve they could make their escape against two Colts. The darkness and the distance between the opposing factions made accurate shooting almost impossible. The most sensible procedure was for either him or Apperson to go out and make sure they were thoroughly disarmed, though the presence of one or the other in the vicinity of the six silent Kentuckians meant that the other man could not shoot without risking the wounding or killing of his ally. But it was the only possible chance. And which part should he take? Should he approach them and leave Apperson to cover him, or vice versa? He was a better shot than Apperson—and possibly the Scot might hesitate to shoot.
For a moment Hemingwood was up against a problem. He knew in his heart that if those mountaineers had the nerve they could make their escape against two Colts. The darkness and the distance between the opposing factions made accurate shooting almost impossible. The most sensible procedure was for either him or Apperson to go out and make sure they were thoroughly disarmed, though the presence of one or the other in the vicinity of the six silent Kentuckians meant that the other man could not shoot without risking the wounding or killing of his ally. But it was the only possible chance. And which part should he take? Should he approach them and leave Apperson to cover him, or vice versa? He was a better shot than Apperson—and possibly the Scot might hesitate to shoot.
He put the matter up to the sergeant bluntly. Apperson silently climbed out of the barricade and circled widely to approach the line of captives from the rear. If they were unarmed, except for their rifles on the ground, he and Apperson might get away with it, Hemingwood reflected. Then a thought occurred to him, and he called Apperson back. He heard whispers pass between the mountaineers.
“Keep quiet! No talking!” he called sharply. Then: “If they make a move, drop to the ground so I can shoot!” he told Apperson. “Wait a minute! Get in here! I’m going out there myself!”
Afterward Hemingwood figured that the mountaineers, sure that they were opposed to only two men with revolvers, got the courage from the fact to make a break for liberty. As always among the mountain people, they were undoubtedly desperate at the thought of capture. For, just as Hemingwood was climbing out of the barricade the six men made a concerted leap for their rifles. Like a flash Hemingwood dropped, and both Colts barked in a fusillade of shots. The flyer saw one man drop, and another screamed with pain. A hail of bullets poured from their rifles, and he heard Apperson groan.
“They got me!” he said weakly.
Hemingwood shoved another clip into his gun and emptied it into the woods wherein the Kentuckians had disappeared. He could hear them running through the undergrowth. When Hemingwood was really mad it was a sort of cold, calculating fury. That was his condition as he examined Apperson. It was a rather nasty looking wound in the hip, but apparently it was only a deep flesh wound. As he bound it with handkerchief and belt he said tersely: “Think you can move at all?”
Apperson tried, winced, and said: “I could hobble in an emergency, sir-r-r. What’s in your mind, may I ask?”
Hemingwood explained quickly. If there was a way to get those men he’d do it, and he did not figure the odds against him.
The self-starter worked the second time he spun the booster magneto. The ship was already in position for the take-off. With utter recklessness he shoved the throttle full on and the ship hurled itself toward the dense blackness of the trees behind a cold motor. At the last second he zoomed the De Haviland across the menacing wall, and the matchless Liberty did its work. Half a minute later he had spotted the fugitives below, like ghosts slipping through the shadows.
The self-starter worked the second time he spun the booster magneto. The ship was already in position for the take-off. With utter recklessness he shoved the throttle full on and the ship hurled itself toward the dense blackness of the trees behind a cold motor. At the last second he zoomed the De Haviland across the menacing wall, and the matchless Liberty did its work. Half a minute later he had spotted the fugitives below, like ghosts slipping through the shadows.
He gave them one chance. The first burst from his guns was close to them, but not aimed exactly at them. Then he swooped so low he was scraping the tops of the trees, and motioned them back toward the field with his arm. Theymustrealize that he held their lives in the palm of his hand!
They did. He saw them ostentatiously drop their guns and, with their hands in the air in token of surrender, start walking back toward the field. Apperson was waiting for them. Hemingwood rode herd on them from the air while he watched the crippled Scotchman supervise while one man tied up his fellows with safety wire from the ship.
They knew that the best they could do would be to kill Apperson—and then all succumb themselves to that withering blast of death from the air.
For the next thirty seconds Hemingwood flew as he never had before. It was a rare feat of airmanship to land his De Haviland in the darkness on that field, but he did it.
He climbed out and looked their captives over. One of them was a gaunt old man, with a gray, tobacco stained beard. Three of them seemed to be middle-aged, and there were two young fellows. One who had fallen seemed little more than a boy. Apperson was binding his wound. The bullet had drilled through his thigh. Another man was wounded in the shoulder. Neither wound was mortal.
Hemingwood was thinking hard as to his next step. Apperson’s wound was practically negligible, although he had to hobble on one foot and it drew a sigh from him every time his other foot touched the ground. Keeping those men prisoners meant a good deal of trouble and red tape. Probably the whole clan would descend on the flyers to revenge themselves if they stayed in the mountains, and very possibly there would be complications of considerable difficulty in even incarcerating them. Besides, his business was to get those pictures.
Apperson was lying on the ground, to relieve his pain. Hemingwood looked down at his captives for a moment in silent appraisal. They darted quick, fearful glances at him, like trapped animals.
“Listen, you Calleys,” he said conversationally. “You’ve tried to kill us twice. Once it was because you were afraid we were after you. That shows you’re up to something. I could have killed you all then; I wounded one of you by accident, in trying to scare you. Then you pull this. I could have killed you all again. You know that.
“Now get this. I don’t give a damn about you. I’m here to take pictures. I don’t want trouble. I don’t care whether you’re making moonshine enough to float the British Navy. I’ve got you now. To show you that I don’t want to bother with you, I’m going to let you take your wounded and vamoose out of here. Go home, lay off me, and behave yourselves. We’ve sniped three of you in exchange for one little wound, and by God, if you lift a finger at me again I’ll mow you all down! Get anywhere near this field and those machine guns’ll start working from the ground.” They wouldn’t know that the guns on the ship were useless on the ground unless dismounted. “And get funny while I’m in the air and the same thing’ll happen. And if you snipe me off some night while I’m here, you’ll have enough of the United States Army combing these woods for you to run you down like rats. All the dope will be mailed in tomorrow, including who you are and what you’ve done. Now I’m going to spank you and send you home like the bad boys you are!”
“Now get this. I don’t give a damn about you. I’m here to take pictures. I don’t want trouble. I don’t care whether you’re making moonshine enough to float the British Navy. I’ve got you now. To show you that I don’t want to bother with you, I’m going to let you take your wounded and vamoose out of here. Go home, lay off me, and behave yourselves. We’ve sniped three of you in exchange for one little wound, and by God, if you lift a finger at me again I’ll mow you all down! Get anywhere near this field and those machine guns’ll start working from the ground.” They wouldn’t know that the guns on the ship were useless on the ground unless dismounted. “And get funny while I’m in the air and the same thing’ll happen. And if you snipe me off some night while I’m here, you’ll have enough of the United States Army combing these woods for you to run you down like rats. All the dope will be mailed in tomorrow, including who you are and what you’ve done. Now I’m going to spank you and send you home like the bad boys you are!”
A long sigh came from the astounded prisoners, followed by a deep chuckle from the old man. Apperson showed no surprise. Hemingwood released them, and they got to their feet slowly. The old man smiled slowly, and it made a great change in his fierce, hawk-like face.
“Yuh can think o’ the Calleys as yore friends, stranger,” he said slowly. “C’mon hyar, you!”
Carrying their wounded, they marched silently off into the forest.
Less than five minutes after the Calleys had disappeared into the woods the clatter of an approaching automobile interrupted the reminiscent conversation of the two airmen.
It was the Mumford truck, and it carried Mumford, Gail Morgan, and five other men. One of them, he perceived, was Ballardson. Another was a doctor, who got to work on Apperson immediately.
“Gail told me all about it, Lieutenant,” said Mumford. “Of course we couldn’t let a thing like this go on—”
“Of course not!” interrupted Ballardson. The fat peace officer was ill at ease, and showed it. “I’m glad there wasn’t nothin’ to it.”
“There was something to it, but it ended all right,” Hemingwood told him, and a perverse imp in his eyes was unseen in the darkness. He narrated the night’s events briefly, and then added: “I’m sure grateful to you for sending me that note of warning!”
He was watching closely, and knew he had scored. Ballardson’s mouth opened and closed in fish-like gasps. Hemingwood turned to the other men, who were suddenly interested.
“Got an anonymous note, warning me to get out of town for safety’s sake. Just found out it was from Ballardson here. Thanks again, Officer.”
The men were silent, as though at a complete loss for words. Hemingwood knew, however, that he had put a weapon in their hands which would save both them and him any reprisal from the crooked official for the night’s work. He was aware of how slight an excuse was needed for a mountain feud, and surmised that Mumford and the other East Point men had made a real sacrifice in coming to his assistance.
The men drifted over to the ship to examine it at close range. Hemingwood gave Mumford succinct details about the note and the successful shot he had fired at Ballardson a moment before, and then joined Gail, who had been standing quietly in the background.
“Gail, we never can thank you enough, of course,” he said.
“Don’t try, then. I’ll take it for granted,” she laughed back.
She was elusively lovely in the moonlight, and Hemingwood found himself in the grip of profoundly disturbing emotions.
“Ever since I arrived you’ve been doing favors for me,” he found himself saying. And then to his own surprise, he added: “I wish you’d do me one more favor, and marry me!”
For a second her glorious eyes met his own squarely. Then she turned away quickly, and laughed.
“It might not be a favor!” she said lightly, and slipped away toward her uncle.
The truck carried Apperson back to town, but Hemingwood stayed out at the field. He did not sleep well, either. Hour after hour he examined himself, mentally, and in the end he decided that he was afraid he was in love.
The succeeding week only made him surer of it. While Apperson was convalescing he spent every possible hour with Gail, but never was the subject closest to his heart mentioned. George Arlington Hemingwood, who had never known what it was to be shy or at a loss, was totally unable to nerve himself for the ordeal of a serious proposal. Night after night he tried, only to stutter off into banal nothings.
That is, until the morning when, Apperson being recovered and the pictures all taken, they were about to take off for home. With a crowd around to watch the take-off, his helmet and goggles on his head and the motor idling along on the warm-up under Apperson’s skillful hand, he impulsively bent over and whispered his plea into her ear. She listened quietly, her hand clasped in his. They were in back of the crowd and for the moment seemed to be inhabiting a little world all their own.
“Can’t you possibly say ‘yes’?” he asked her, his eyes holding hers steadily.
“I’m sorry—but I don’t quite know yet,” she whispered. “I like you better than any man I’ve ever known.” She hesitated, and then leaned close to him and said rapidly, “I think I want to say yes—but George, I’m not sure! Perhaps this summer—”
He pressed her eagerly for a definite answer, but she shook her head. Even so, there was a song on his lips and such a leaping light in his eyes as he got in the ship that Apperson took one look at him, glanced at the flushed face of the girl, and smiled an enigmatic smile below his owl-like goggles.
Hemingwood took off, circled the field, and then obeyed an impulse to give the crowd a parting thrill. He swooped down low over the field and waved a farewell. In the forefront of the crowd he saw Gail, and she was beckoning wildly. For a moment he stared. She was signaling him down!
He landed, taxied the ship to the edge of the field, and turned it around. She appeared alongside the ’plane, her hair whipping in the propeller blast and her eyes glowing warmly. The astonished crowd looked on, wondering, as she put her lips close to his ear and said quickly:
“When I saw you leaving I found out that Iwassure! Will you be back this week-end?”
“When I saw you leaving I found out that Iwassure! Will you be back this week-end?”
George Arlington Hemingwood yelled like a Comanche Indian, and started to climb out.
“Not now—no!”
“All right! Tell all the folks, and I’ll be here Saturday if I have to build a ship!”
Thuswise she sent him away.
Not until Goddard Field was in sight did George Arlington Hemingwood, of the Hemingwoods of Boston, come out of his rose tinted trance. His face was one wide grin as he sent the ton-and-a-half bomber roaring downward in sweeping spirals and graceful wingturns.
“Just before I left I seem to remember some remarks about love and matrimony!” he reflected. “I’ll have to tell these roughnecks some time, I suppose. Won’t that boy Snapper rave! And won’t I get the razz!”
He did. It continued spasmodically long after the quarters of Mr. and Mrs. Hemingwood became a popular gathering place, but Hemingwood bore up under it wonderfully.
THE END
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the July 10, 1924 issue ofShort Storiesmagazine.
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the July 10, 1924 issue ofShort Storiesmagazine.