The Project Gutenberg eBook ofMoonlight and moonshineThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Moonlight and moonshineAuthor: Thomson BurtisRelease date: July 25, 2024 [eBook #74121]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: New York: Doubleday, Page & Co, 1924Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MOONLIGHT AND MOONSHINE ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Moonlight and moonshineAuthor: Thomson BurtisRelease date: July 25, 2024 [eBook #74121]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: New York: Doubleday, Page & Co, 1924Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark
Title: Moonlight and moonshine
Author: Thomson Burtis
Author: Thomson Burtis
Release date: July 25, 2024 [eBook #74121]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Doubleday, Page & Co, 1924
Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MOONLIGHT AND MOONSHINE ***
by Thomson Burtis
Author of “Texas Steerers,” “Release,” etc.
GEORGE ARLINGTON HEMINGWOOD, OF THE AIR SERVICE, DIDN’T CARE WHAT THOSE KENTUCKY MOUNTAINEERS DID SO LONG AS THEY DIDN’T DO IT TO HIM. BUT WHEN A BULLET IN THE ENGINE OF HIS SOARING PLANE MADE HIM TRY TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO LAND ON TREE-TOPS AND LIVE, HE CONCLUDED THAT IT WAS TIME TO START SOMETHING
Lieutenant George Arlington Hemingwood, of the Hemingwoods of Boston, was wrestling with a problem. Having applied soothing lotions to his freshly shaved and smarting face, and put the last touches to the part in his black hair, he continued to stare into the small mirror and wonder whether he ought to do it or not.
He leaned over until his deeply tanned face was within an inch of the glass and inspected in detail the small, close-cropped black mustache which adorned his upper lip. It was a fairly luxuriant mustache, as those hirsute adornments go, but it did not quite satisfy his critical eye. Was it worthwhile to shave it off in the hope that two hairs would sprout where but one had grown before?
Let it go as it was, he decided.
Having decided this burning question, Hemingwood proceeded leisurely to don his tan serge shirt. He had no further interest in his face, although that, like its principal ornament, was a good enough specimen of its kind. A bit round, perhaps, and certainly very brown, but lighted amazingly by a pair of sparkling brown eyes and a wide, good-humored mouth which was usually curved in either a smile or a grin. If not, it conveyed the impression that it would stretch into one or the other at the slightest provocation.
It was the face of a contented and cheery person, both of which George Arlington Hemingwood was. Being a first lieutenant in the Air Service satisfied him completely and he had little more to ask from fate. The future was pleasant to his mind’s eye. He wasted no thought whatever on his prospects. He could not have told you where he stood on the promotion list, because he did not care particularly whether he ever became a captain or not.
Life, as it was and as he lived it, was a good invention of the Lord’s to his mind. The two rooms he occupied, with walls of beaverboard and a leak in the ceiling, were comfortable enough to live in and far more appealing than the shadowed confines of the Hemingwood residence on Beacon Hill, and, although his father’s bank was a fine big bank and his father’s son could lead an enviable commercial existence therein, the cockpit of a De Haviland airplane was infinitely more desirable.
This despite the fact that George Arlington Hemingwood had led a wild, not to say sensational existence during his five years of flying. From Long Island to the Philippines, and from Selfridge Field on the Canadian border to France Field in Panama he was known as the unluckiest flyer still above the ground instead of under it. He could handle a ship along with the best; that was conceded. However, there appeared to be a conspiracy of motors and the elements against him. He had had more forced landings by half than any other flyer on the list. And almost invariably they occurred over such choice bits of country as the Everglades, the wilder sections of the Mexican border, Chesapeake Bay, the Rockies, and similar traps for unwary airplanes.
This despite the fact that George Arlington Hemingwood had led a wild, not to say sensational existence during his five years of flying. From Long Island to the Philippines, and from Selfridge Field on the Canadian border to France Field in Panama he was known as the unluckiest flyer still above the ground instead of under it. He could handle a ship along with the best; that was conceded. However, there appeared to be a conspiracy of motors and the elements against him. He had had more forced landings by half than any other flyer on the list. And almost invariably they occurred over such choice bits of country as the Everglades, the wilder sections of the Mexican border, Chesapeake Bay, the Rockies, and similar traps for unwary airplanes.
He had been rescued thirty miles out at sea during the bombing maneuvers at Langham Field, Virginia; he had laid amid the wreckage of his ship in the Big Bend for two days, without food or water, and been found by a miracle; he had landed in a canyon in Arizona and wandered for a week in the mountains; he had been shot down three times in France, and a list of the injuries he had encountered would include mention of a considerable percentage of the bones of the human body. Always, however, George Arlington Hemingwood bobbed up serenely, cursing his luck with fluency and grinning.
His whole-souled enjoyment of life extended to flying, and was not dampened by the crack-ups thereof.
Having found his big Stetson, he adjusted it on his head at the precise angle which appealed to his liking in these matters. Even with the aid of that impressive twenty dollar chapeau he did not look like a man whose hand had frequently been outstretched to greet St. Peter; who was on speaking terms, as it were, with the life hereafter. He was slightly under medium height, and looked a bit shorter than his five feet seven and a half because of a pair of powerful shoulders. He was impeccably arrayed, as always; he was careful about those things. It was characteristic that the insignia of rank and branch of service on his collar were placed with exactitude.
He strolled out through his sitting room—the shabbily comfortable and muchly cluttered domicile of a carefree bachelor—and down the long hall, emerging into the warm sunlight of a spring afternoon in Kentucky. Springtime in Kentucky is a savory season, and four of the flyers of Goddard Field were taking advantage of it by laying at full length on the grass in front of the barracks.
Directly across the road four corrugated iron hangars squatted in a row, paralleling the line of buildings of which the officers’ quarters was one. On the other side of the hangars was Goddard Field, a small, rough airdrome which sloped down to the great artillery camp which spread out for two square miles at its foot. Like the buildings of the flying detachment, Camp Henry’s barracks and stables had never been painted, and the big cantonment looked aged and infirm, which it was.
Directly across the road four corrugated iron hangars squatted in a row, paralleling the line of buildings of which the officers’ quarters was one. On the other side of the hangars was Goddard Field, a small, rough airdrome which sloped down to the great artillery camp which spread out for two square miles at its foot. Like the buildings of the flying detachment, Camp Henry’s barracks and stables had never been painted, and the big cantonment looked aged and infirm, which it was.
“What is the subject of discussion?” enquired Hemingwood as he ignited a cheroot.
“Snapper is trying to justify the fact that he possesses a new fiancée by spacious arguments in favor of marriage,” returned big blonde Morrison.
“Of course, looking at it impartially and without prejudice, marriage is a sucker game from a man’s viewpoint,” stated Hemingwood weightily.
“What do you mean?” enquired Snapper MacNeil belligerently. The wiry, redheaded little flyer was a heaven-sent victim for serious persiflage, and was very much in love.
“Aside from the temporary state of insanity known as love, the state has no arguments in its favor from a man’s viewpoint,” pursued Hemingwood. “Look at the expense, for one thing. However, cheer up, Snapper, even marriage has its points. Don’t think I consider it an unmitigated evil. You can’t—”
“Beg pardon, sir,” said a voice at Hemingwood’s elbow. “Major Williamson’s compliments and will the lieutenant report to headquarters immediately?”
Tall, gaunt Private Rose, perpetual orderly of the officers’ barracks, stood at rigid attention and spewed these words forth as though in mortal fear of forgetting one if he stopped.
“Be right over, Rose,” nodded Hemingwood. So saying, he turned on his heel and left them spellbound.
He strolled toward headquarters, wondering what was up. Some new job, probably. As photographic officer his duties were by no means onerous, and consequently he had a great fear that lightning would strike, at any moment, in the form of an order assigning him to some prosaic task in addition to his other duties.
However, his fears were groundless. He found Major Williamson enthroned behind his desk, arguing acrimoniously with Gobel, the sandy-haired and excitable adjutant. The C. O. fought frequently with Gobel for the purpose of prodding the adjutant until he started pounding the desk, which he frequently did.
“Washington has at last discovered that there’s a photographic section hidden away here,” the major told him. “You’re due for a sojourn in the back hills of Kentucky, where moonshine grows on bushes and rifle bullets flow like water.”
The orders were brief and to the point. Hemingwood was to make a mosaic of the Salters River between the villages of Laport and Herkimer. That would be about thirty miles, Hemingwood reflected. The mosaic was to include all the territory for five miles on each side of the river. Three hundred square miles, which was several days’ work. It was for the use of the geological survey, according to the order, and was to be accomplished without delay.
Hemingwood was delighted. He was whistling cheerfully as he made off to interview Apperson and get things in readiness for a week’s stay in the wilderness.
Hemingwood was delighted. He was whistling cheerfully as he made off to interview Apperson and get things in readiness for a week’s stay in the wilderness.
He found Sergeant Apperson, his chief non-com, in the photo hut. Apperson was a gray-haired veteran who was as reliable as a tax collector and knew more about cameras than the inventors thereof. Anything from a pocket machine to a motion picture outfit was in his professional bailiwick. He was a wiry, weather-beaten little Scotchman who retained a trace of the brogue of his youth.
“We’ll have oor base oot yonder, no doot?” he queried. “We’ll be ready in the mornin’, sir-r-r!”
The invaluable Apperson was likewise an excellent mechanic in addition to his other praiseworthy talents, so Hemingwood told him to have the ship warmed and ready by six in the morning. Whereupon he dismissed everything from his mind. Apperson never failed.
At precisely six-forty-five next morning Hemingwood was commencing to look for the Salters River, which was his principal landmark to aid in finding East Point. For a half hour he had been flying over the mountains. As far as the eye could see, even from the airy perch of three thousand feet, low rolling, heavily wooded hills rolled away to the skyline. It was not difficult to believe the bloody history of those thousands of acres of unkempt wilderness as one looked down on the grim fastnesses which hid in their depths a strange breed who lived and fought and died in a shadowed, primitive world of their own. George himself had had a sample of the suspicious mountain people when he had been forced to land in the hills a few months before.
Another flyer would have been taut with the strain of flying continuously over a wilderness which presented no possible landing field. The failure of two or three cylinders of the twelve-cylinder, four hundred and fifty horsepower Liberty meant crashing into the trees at seventy miles an hour. But no worry bothered George Arlington Hemingwood. His untroubled eyes scanned the glistening instruments, and he enjoyed the ride. He couldn’t be worried until disaster actually overtook him. The specially built ship, carrying a hundred and thirty-five gallons of gas, roared along over the mountains at a hundred miles an hour. To offset the extra weight of gas, oil, and electric cameras, it was streamlined to the last possible degree, and it was a tribute to Apperson’s loving care down to the last turnbuckle glistening in the morning sun.
Finally the tiny stream came in sight, and he swung southward. It twined along between the mountains, sometimes in deep gorges and sometimes level with tiny fields on its banks. Herkimer came in sight, and he instantly vetoed the one field near it. It was ploughed land and the furrows were high and soft.
Finally the tiny stream came in sight, and he swung southward. It twined along between the mountains, sometimes in deep gorges and sometimes level with tiny fields on its banks. Herkimer came in sight, and he instantly vetoed the one field near it. It was ploughed land and the furrows were high and soft.
He sped along over the village, and deeper up into the mountains. Herkimer was lost to sight almost immediately. There was a three-minute interval when he only picked up one cabin.
Then East Point came in sight, and proved to be a pleasant surprise. It was larger than Herkimer, despite having no railroad, and the wide main street was shaded with towering trees. It was set at the base of a mountain, and for a half mile westward small cleared fields occupied the tiny valley floor. There were small ploughed fields on the mountainsides, too, gleaming white against the green of the woods.
Hemingwood, scrutinizing the ground closely, finally found a field, although it was not as near town as he would have liked. It was a long, narrow grass clearing just below the crest of the mountain behind East Point, on the slope opposite the town. Four miles east of the clearing there was a small settlement which was not on his map.
He throttled the motor to a thousand revolutions a minute and dropped down for a look. He could see the residents of East Point popping forth from their houses for a look at the visitor from the sky. There would be some excitement down there, he soliloquized. He noticed a solitary horseman toiling up the road from East Point to that settlement, whatever its name was. The road led past his prospective landing place, which would make transportation of gas and oil a simple matter.
The field lay north and south, with an eastern slope. It was surrounded by towering trees on three sides, but to the north, where the road skirted it, there was a good approach.
He swooped down within ten feet of the ground and flashed across it for a detailed inspection. It rolled slightly and the grass was four or five inches long. A few rocks protruded from the vegetation, but the middle of the clearing seemed to be without obstacles.
He decided immediately to try it. As he zoomed upward and turned northward to land over the road he looked around at the imperturbable Apperson. He pointed down at the field, and Apperson removed his pipe and nodded. Not in approval; merely understanding. Apperson considered everything in the photo section as his business, except flying. This he left entirely to Hemingwood. If his chief had indicated the Ohio River as a landing place, Apperson would have nodded.
Hemingwood came in low over the thin fringe of trees, cutting the motor gradually. The heavy ship had almost lost speed when it was over the road, and was mushing downward. Hemingwood stabbed the throttle ahead for a second as the DeHaviland settled over the fence. The spurt of power held the nose up a second more, and the stick was back in his lap when the ship hit on three points in a hard stall landing. It rolled with slackening speed up a small hump in the field, picked up again as it rolled down the other side, and stopped at the top of the second fold, a safe hundred yards from the southern boundary. It was flying as perfect as it was unconsciously skillful.
Hemingwood gave it the gun and taxied to the fence. He turned off the gasoline feed, ran the motor out, and clicked off the switches.
“I’ll take a constitutional down to the city, Apperson, and see where we sleep and eat, if any. Likewise where we get gas and oil, and how. I guess you’d better stay here. There’ll be the usual mob of people show up, I suppose.”
“Quite so,” nodded Apperson, raising his yellow tinted goggles deliberately. “Ye’ll have transportation to get the hags into town, no doot.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll be back in a couple of hours—by the time the sun gets right for pictures, anyhow.”
He climbed out, lit a cigaret, and surveyed the cloudless sky with satisfaction.
He climbed out, lit a cigaret, and surveyed the cloudless sky with satisfaction.
The mosaic would be taken from eleven thousand feet, and even a few cumulous clouds would mean great gaps in the pictures. It looked like a good working day.
Apperson was busy in the back cockpit, unwiring divers articles he had packed away there. He could fit anything up to an automobile into the cockpit of a ship. Article after article materialized from the mystic depths, until it was a problem where the sergeant himself had ridden.
Hemingwood took off his flying suit and made off without further ado. It was about three miles over the mountain to East Point, he estimated, and it would be a phenomenon if he did not meet a procession of cars, one of which would be delighted to turn around and give him a lift.
He had proceeded up the dusty road for a half mile, and had just reached the crest of the hill when a horseman hove in sight. The one he had seen from the air, probably. He did not seem in a hurry, for the horse was ambling along at pretty much his own gait.
Suddenly Hemingwood’s dark eyes lighted with interest and he became conscious that his face was undoubtedly spotted with oil. That was a woman on that horse, riding astride. Furthermore, she was a young woman. A big, white Panama hat, shaped like a man’s, shaded her face, and her costume consisted of khaki riding trousers, leather boots, and a white blouse.
In a few seconds he was able to state with conviction that not only was the rider a young woman, but that she was also a most remarkably attractive specimen of her sex. And George Arlington Hemingwood was not a man who allowed opportunity to knock at his door without an answer. He stopped a few feet in front of the horse and smiled up at the girl.
“I beg your pardon, but could you tell me the name of the town that seems to be at the end of this road?”
Her piquant face, framed by the Panama and bobbed hair, dimpled slightly as she pulled up her horse.
“Which end of the road?” she enquired.
“The one I’m headed for—it seemed to be the biggest.”
“East Point,” she informed him. “Did you have a forced landing?”
“You talk like a flyer!” grinned Hemingwood. “No, I came down on purpose. I thought I was near East Point, but it’s hard to tell from the air. Particularly in such thickly settled country,” he added.
She chuckled, a peculiarly infectious performance as she accomplished it. She was a tiny little thing, Hemingwood thought, and her small, oval face with its saucily tilted nose and rather wide mouth possessed a charm which far transcended the mere beauty of more regular features. She did not look as if a resident of the mountains.
“You know, pretty lady, I’ve read a few flying stories in some of our magazines, and in every one some beautiful girl always materializes as soon as an airplane lands,” he remarked. “They just pop out of bushes in the wilderness or from behind sand hummocks in the desert. But in five years of flying it’s the first time I’ve seen it happen!”
“Well, this is the first time you’ve ever landed anywhere near me,” she returned, mirth in her gray eyes.
“My mistake!” laughed Hemingwood.
“I wonder if you could give me some information. I expect to be in your village, or above it, for a few days, taking pictures of this flock of mountains. If they rolled Kentucky out flat it would be bigger than Texas.”
She laughed aloud this time. Her face had an out-of-doors look about it, just a hint of golden tan and red cheeks with the color underneath the skin instead of on top of it.
“The main things I want to know are as follows: where can my trusty sergeant and myself procure beds and boards for ourselves? And is there any garage in town where we can buy gasoline and oil?”
“That last remark is an insult!” she said severely. “I ought to ride off and leave you standing here after that insinuation against East Point. However, you’re a stranger. My uncle has practically the only store in East Point. He sells gasoline and oil.”
“He must be a good business man, judging by his choice of salesmen,” commented Hemingwood.
“That’s the secret of his success,” she confided smilingly. “About the boarding house, I don’t know. We have no regular hotel or even boarding house, but I guess my uncle could tell you where to go.”
“And your uncle’s name is—”
“Mumford. You can’t miss the store. There’s a big sign on it.”
“Do you think you could stand it if I introduced myself?” enquired Hemingwood.
“I might.”
“Hemingwood—George Hemingwood, hailing at present from Camp Henry.”
“How do you do, Lieutenant Hemingwood,” she smiled. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”
“Be a nice day if the weather doesn’t change, Miss Blank,” agreed the flyer.
“I’ll let you substitute ‘Morgan’ in the blank. Are we ordinary people on the ground to be allowed to look at your airplane?”
“I’ll show you the sights myself.”
She glanced down at the tiny gold watch on her wrist.
“Ten minutes of nine! I’ve got to hurry. I’m a hard working school-marm, you see. But I do want to see your plane, lieutenant.”
“What time do you get through for the day?”
“Four o’clock.”
“Are you riding to school? Come back this way?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be waiting at the ship for you. I want to be present when you see it, because it all sounds so much more impressive as I explain things.”
“I will be supposed to worship in silent awe, perhaps?”
“You be interested, and I’ll do the worshipping,” grinned Hemingwood.
“You don’t appear to be of the reverent sort. However, I’ll look forward to it. Good-by until this afternoon!”
She threw him a smile and urged her fat white horse into a lumbering gallop.
She threw him a smile and urged her fat white horse into a lumbering gallop.
“She’s no East Point girl; she’s just out of college and getting a year’s experience or something!” soliloquized Hemingwood. “Must be some little schoolhouse up at that settlement I saw from the air. Cute kid, and she knows what it’s all about too.”
He resumed his pilgrimage to East Point, musing contentedly on the prospect before him. He had not proceeded five hundred yards, however, before loud clanking and rattling announced the fact that there was a vehicle approaching. A battered Ford truck bounced into sight and clattered up to him, slowing gradually. Loose tools in the rear were responsible for the weird combination of noises given forth by the flivver. Two men were in the seat. The truck stopped alongside the flyer, and the fat man at the wheel hailed him.
“Mornin’! Git down all right?”
“Yes, thanks. Nothing the matter. Landed on purpose.”
“I see. Lookin’ fur anything special around hyar?”
The driver’s round, red face was the setting for a pair of small, green eyes encased in rolls of fat. He was dressed in greasy mechanic clothing and a battered felt hat. His companion was a gaunt man of middle age, boasting a drooping mustache and a melancholy look.
“I’m going to town to look for gas and oil and a place to sleep right now.”
“Climb in hyar, and I’ll take yuh t’ town,” offered the fat man, who seemed to be making a determined effort to be genial.
Without a word his companion uncoiled his long length and languidly transferred himself into the rear of the truck. He was dressed in a black shirt and dirty khaki trousers and his felt hat was in as decrepit a condition as the driver’s.
The Ford had barely turned around when the vanguard of the sightseers passed in two flivvers, both loaded to the guards with coatless men of all ages. They peered at Hemingwood with concentrated attention as they dashed by.
“I keep the garage hyar an’ I c’n let yuh have all the gas yuh want,” offered the driver.
“Well, I’ve made arrangements in advance with Mr. Mumford,” lied Hemingwood.
Just why he had said it he did not know. It was an impulse, but a sensible one. He intended to buy the gas of Mumford because of the girl, and he might as well avoid antagonizing anyone in East Point if he could.
The driver grunted. He was plainly disappointed.
“Gettin’ right out?” he enquired.
“No, I’ll be here several days.”
The man glanced at him quickly, and the flyer felt instinctively that the man behind him was staring at him steadily and listening closely.
“What fur?”
The forthright question was like a blow.
“I was sent here to take a lot of pictures from the air,” Hemingwood explained.
He felt the tenseness in the atmosphere, and was well aware of the attitude of mountaineers regarding any stranger, particularly a Government man. Consequently he went to some pains to describe his mission exactly. Apparently he did not satisfy the fat garage man entirely, though. Hemingwood was somewhat puzzled. It would have been more explainable if the man had been a mountaineer. Perhaps he was, and had graduated into a business in town. No reason why a man couldn’t make moonshine just because he lived in town, either, he reflected.
Several more cars passed them, all filled with passengers. Three men on horseback and two buckboards were included in the procession. When they turned into the wide dirt street of East Point there were knots of people, mostly women, talking on the sidewalks. They were plainly curious, and Hemingwood was the target for severe inspection and several pointing fingers.
Most of the houses were small frame buildings, neatly painted, and interspersed with several tumble-down shacks. The business section was half-way down the street, and consisted of a tottery wooden shed labeled “Garage,” a small drug store with fly specked windows, and a big, square building with a false front, modern show windows, and a big sign reading:
Most of the houses were small frame buildings, neatly painted, and interspersed with several tumble-down shacks. The business section was half-way down the street, and consisted of a tottery wooden shed labeled “Garage,” a small drug store with fly specked windows, and a big, square building with a false front, modern show windows, and a big sign reading:
MUMFORD’S GENERAL STOREPost Office, East Point, Kentucky.
MUMFORD’S GENERAL STORE
Post Office, East Point, Kentucky.
A bright red gasoline pump stood in front of it, and a rolling oil tank. Four old men were in conversation in front of the store, and there was a group of younger men whose meeting place was evidently the garage. A few wagons were drawn up along the stone sidewalk, the horses tied to hitching posts. Evidently all the available cars had been driven out to the field.
As they drew up in front of the store the fat driver offered to wait and transport Hemingwood back to the field, which offer the Bostonian accepted with thanks.
He went into the crowded little store and looked around at the counters.
“Mumford sells everything from pills to plows,” he soliloquized, and then spotted a short, broad, baldheaded man emerging from a cubbyhole in the rear. It proved to be Mumford.
Hemingwood introduced himself, explained his need of a hundred gallons of gas delivered at the field every flying day, and learned that Mumford owned a truck with which it could be delivered. The storekeeper also opined that he could undoubtedly find a place for the flyers to live if they would wait for definite information until the afternoon.
The flyer studied his man a bit, and decided to take him into his confidence to a slight extent. He told him about the casual meeting with his niece that morning, and went on to say: “I came down here with Ballardson. He wanted this gas business, so to keep him from being sore I told him that I had made arrangements in advance with you. I don’t know anything about East Point, but I figured it might save unpleasantness. Will you bear me out in my story, if necessary?”
Roundfaced Mr. Mumford chuckled.
“How come you figured Ballardson that way?” he enquired.
“He didn’t seem particularly friendly,” Hemingwood returned.
“If there’s any unpleasantness, prob’ly he’ll have something to do with it,” stated Mumford. “These mountain people are funny, you know.”
On the way back to the field Ballardson’s questions and something in the attitude of both men showed plainly that they were not satisfied as to the precise purpose of the pictures Hemingwood was to take. There were fifty or sixty people in plain sight near the ship, and as many more men, women, and children lurking half-screened in the surrounding forest. They watched the transfer of thirty gallons of gas with consuming interest.
Knots of roughly dressed men conversed in low tones, while other more conventionally arrayed, made no mysterious motions. Hemingwood caught a phrase: “The control wires go through the fuselage hyar, and work these hyar elevators.” He looked around—he was up on a wing, holding the funnel over the main tank—to find out who knew so much about airplanes in that benighted town. It seemed to be a scrawny, red-headed chap wearing a nondescript felt hat, hickory shirt, and overalls. A moment later Hemingwood noticed Ballardson in conversation with him.
The slow job of straining the gas through the chamois was about over when the flyer heard voices raised in anger. He looked around and saw two men standing close to the tail surfaces of the ’plane, surrounded by a half dozen others, including Ballardson and the airplane expert.
“I say you’re a liar!” shouted a gaunt, rawboned mountaineer who was one of the pair. The other, short and powerfully built, retaliated with a resounding slap. The next second they were locked in each other’s arms.
Hemingwood leaped to the ground while the onlookers watched breathlessly. Those men were perilously close to the ship. If one of them put a foot through the frail linen of the elevators or rudder—
As he ran toward them, followed by Apperson, he saw the taller man deliberately kick his foot toward the drooping elevators. In a flash Hemingwood took in the details. Their faces were not those of two fighting men temporarily hating each other. And that kick had looked deliberated, even if it had missed. As he got within a foot of them they were poised directly over the tail assembly, straining mightily. Another second and they would have crashed together over the ship and would have put one De Haviland airplane totally out of flying condition for several days.
It was a frame-up, Hemingwood thought as he hurled himself at the contestants. He hit them like a human cannon ball. And, for the moment, he was one. Characteristically, he was totally unimpressed by the odds against him. With fists and feet he drove the astounded battlers back. After they had recovered, they commenced to retaliate. No one else took a hand, for a moment, and Hemingwood fought entirely alone. He seemed to be a dynamic ball, bristling with feet and fists from every angle. He was in a cold rage at the unwarranted interference of the mountaineers, and he gloried in the opportunity to vent some of it on them. He fought furiously, and for a few seconds actually had the best of it. A sweeping kick sent the stocky man to the ground, and George took a clumsy swing on the side of the head in order to sink his fist in the taller man’s belly. That put that personage out for a second or two, so he was able to meet the rising gladiator with a wild flurry of fists that cracked home to the jaw and sent him down again.
But he knew it could not last. He leaped back, and jerked out his Colt.
“Stand still, you!” he snapped, and his glinting eyes were hard and keen and his smile had more than a touch of grimness about it. Subconsciously he noticed Ballardson’s amazed, slightly scared face, and the taut expectancy, half fear and half enjoyment, of the spectators. Apperson was at his elbow, his gun also out.
“Listen, all of you!” Hemingwood shouted. There was utter silence. “There’s at least one man here that knows airplanes. This framed-up fight was for the purpose of putting this ship out of commission. If another soul gets anywhere near it he’s going to be filled so full of lead it’ll take a block and tackle to lift him into the hearse.
“Listen, all of you!” Hemingwood shouted. There was utter silence. “There’s at least one man here that knows airplanes. This framed-up fight was for the purpose of putting this ship out of commission. If another soul gets anywhere near it he’s going to be filled so full of lead it’ll take a block and tackle to lift him into the hearse.
“You’re fooling with the United States Army if you knock me off. And you won’t get away with it. I’m here to take pictures, and nothing else. I don’t give a damn who or what you are, but by God if you two birds or anyone else looks crosseyed in my direction or starts anything else as funny as this, I’ll commence to get damn interested! Now get the hell out of here, you two, and the rest of you get back and stay back!”
Which they did. They were thoroughly awed, and well satisfied to remain at a distance. It was significant that not a soul seemed to take Hemingwood’s part. Evidently the mountaineers had the village business men somewhat under their thumbs.
“Nice start I’ve got,” soliloquized the untroubled flyer.
He wasted no time in taking off—no telling when fleecy cumulous clouds would form in the sky and spoil the continuity of the strips. Apperson had everything in readiness; the camera was set in the floor of the rear cockpit, in which an opening was cut to fit it. The electric motor was connected, and spare batteries and plenty of film for the day’s work were in a specially built recess behind the seat.
After a few circles of the field Hemingwood set out for Herkimer, climbing steadily.
In a half hour the altimeter was reading eleven thousand feet, and the long grind began. He was flying his strips over the short ten mile course, east and west.
It was hard work to fly continuously with every faculty concentrated on keeping the ship absolutely level and flying a straight line, making sure that the strips had plenty of overlap and that the speed of the ’plane was kept constant. In the rear Apperson was devoting all his attention to the huge camera and the motor. The camera was geared to shoot a picture automatically at intervals of a few seconds. When he wanted to reload he signaled Hemingwood, who thereupon flew around, killing time until the change had been made.
Four hours of it left even the nerveless pilot very tired; he was heartily glad when it was time to drop earthward again. They had covered the first six miles of the terrain they were to shoot. He hoped devoutly that there were no gaps to make retakes necessary. No way to tell that, though, until the thousands of pictures had been developed and laboriously put together in the completed mosaic.
Mumford proved he was on the job by having the next day’s supplies delivered at the field within a half hour after they had landed. By the time the big tanks of the D. H. were full, a few spectators had arrived and were looking in awed wonder at the gigantic bomber. Close on their heels came Miss Morgan.
Mumford seemed distraught and ill-at-ease, referring to the fight only slightly. Hemingwood decided that the merchant did not dare take sides openly against the mountaineers and that he was considerably worried because of his business connection with the hated Government man. His niece, however, did not follow his lead. She beckoned Hemingwood to one side, and her eyes were dark with worry.
“Tell me about this morning,” she commanded, and Hemingwood obliged, giving a more or less ludicrous account thereof.
“Apperson and I are going to stay out here and guard the crate,” he concluded. “I guess they won’t monkey with us any more. I notice that the wild eyed mob here are keeping their distance pretty well.”
“I wish you wouldn’t take it so lightly,” she protested. “You have no idea how they are when they’re aroused or frightened. With your ship flying around over them all day they’ll feel hunted, and—”
“I tried to explain this morning that I’m not interested in their private crimes,” Hemingwood told her with a grin.
“I know, but the poor dears have been hunted so much for things like moonshining, which they consider perfectly all right—you know they can’t see for the life of them why they should be taxed, or be breaking the law, because they make some corn mash out of their own corn and distill it—”
“I know. But the poor dears give me a pain in the neck when they try to bust up my ship. But let’s not worry about it, eh?”
Whereupon, in a very presentable baritone, he burst forth into a song:
“Snap your fingers at care!Don’t cross the bridge ’till you’re there—”
“Snap your fingers at care!
Don’t cross the bridge ’till you’re there—”
The girl hesitated, smiled, and finally laughed. She became serious again very soon, however.
“That’s fine, but please be careful and try not to alienate them any more, won’t you?” she begged him.
Hemingwood assented, and he was aware of a curious feeling of warm satisfaction that she took so much interest in the situation. He himself simply couldn’t be worried about it. He was an unusual type. He could not be said to be brave, because he was really unacquainted with fear. It was a strange paradox, that a man who loved living so much should hold life itself so cheaply as did George Arlington Hemingwood, of the Hemingwoods of Boston.
“I’ll bring you your supper,” she offered.
“I’ve got to go to town and see if I can rustle some blankets and perhaps a tent from your uncle. He just told me he had some.”
The noise of a motor became clear, and George looked up to see the Mumford truck on its way homeward.
“I intended to get a ride back to town, but I see I missed out,” Hemingwood observed. Mumford apparently wanted to spend no more time than he needed to in the vicinity of the flyers.
“Don’t blame him, please, Lieutenant Hemingwood,” the girl said in a low voice. “You have no idea what a difficult position he is in because of the trouble this morning. The mountain people—”
“I understand. There’s no reason why he should risk being mixed up in it,” nodded Hemingwood.
“I’ll give you a lift home on Pegasus,” she offered, and so it came about that Hemingwood had a hilarious ride back to East Point on the rear deck of the venerable Pegasus. He got off a little way out of town although the girl did not suggest it.
“I can’t call on you tonight, which I intended to ask permission to do,” he told her, smiling up into her own mirthful eyes. “You have no idea what an angel from heaven you’d seem if you passed our palatial pasture home this evening, though.”
She hesitated a moment, and then laughed.
“I am invited out so little here that I miss no opportunities to take part in the social whirl,” she smiled. “Aunty and I will accept with pleasure, and supply a better picnic supper than you can get out of cans, too!”
He got his supplies from Mumford, including the tent, and likewise a letter, addressed in pencil to Lt. Hemingwood in care of Mumford’s store. The script was all but illegible. He opened it in Mumford’s presence, and read:
Take my advise and git out of town quick or youll be sorry I know what Im talkin aboutA friend
Take my advise and git out of town quick or youll be sorry I know what Im talkin about
A friend
Hemingwood’s mouth stretched in a wide grin. He thrust it into his pocket and said nothing about it to the patiently curious Mumford. He showed it to Epperson, back at the field, and that wily Scot shook his head.
“’Tis no such a bonny country,” he remarked, sucking at his pipe.
“’Tis no such a bonny country,” he remarked, sucking at his pipe.
“Funny people, wild as March hares,” assented Hemingwood. “They’ll think several times before they really try to harm us, though. The most we’ve got to look forward to is another attempt to harm the ship, I imagine. Our hides will stay intact except under unusual circumstances. Let’s pitch the bungalow so I can catch a nap before dinner arrives.”
Which they did. And Hemingwood, entirely unaffected by the note in his pocket, fell asleep immediately. He had much more interesting things to think about than crazy mountaineers. Miss Morgan, for instance.
His awakening was very pleasant, being brought about through the medium of Gail Morgan’s far from unmusical voice. He thrust his tousled head through the flaps of the tent and smiled through the fog of heavy slumber.
“I hope I’m awake and that this isn’t a dream,” he greeted her.
“I brought you large sections of food which may be a little more appetizing than you could have found,” she told him, smiling down from her throne on Pegasus. “If urged, I might even toy delicately with some of it myself. My aunt couldn’t come.”
She wore no hat, and her piquant face was framed in flying brown hair. Hemingwood smiled appreciatively at the picture she presented.
“Where’s Apperson?” he inquired.
“Asleep in the ship.”
That worthy was awakened for the meal, which did not conclude until after twilight. Gail leaned back against one wheel of the ship in comfort. Hemingwood lay lazily at full length. Apperson went for a walk. He was a tactful man, was the sergeant.
“Your uncle was a bit mysterious about this Ballardson bozo,” Hemingwood remarked. “There’s no love lost between them, is there?”
“Oh, they get along all right,” Gail responded carelessly. “Uncle Ed doesn’t exactly approve of Ballardson, though?”
“Why not, if I’m not too curious?”
“He’s from the mountains, you know, and everybody knows that his garage business doesn’t amount to anything. His real occupation is transferring moonshine by truck into various towns—Covington and Cincinnati, principally.”
“I see.”
It was probably Ballardson who had sent that note, Hemingwood reflected. The garage man did not cotton to the idea of a ship flying above the mountains several hours a day, taking pictures which he would figure might be for the purpose of locating stills. He had taken a chance that the letter would scare the interlopers away. Hemingwood did not anticipate any more extreme measures, when the note failed to work. It had been his experience that the uniform of the United States Army aroused respect enough to make any wearer thereof immune from actual personal violence, under ordinary conditions. He had seen the effect of it on the border and likewise in these same Kentucky mountains. Except under unusual provocation, an army man was much safer than any other stranger could possibly be.