Adventure Magazine Cover — page 179: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Don’t Swat a Flyer shirt pocket as he ran, and vaulted into the cockpit. Without waiting to strap his belt, he thrust the throttle forward and then back again. That was to clean out the motor, but the Fokker answered even that little stab of power by getting into motion. The leading pursuer was five yards away when Brannon opened the Mercedes wide. The Fokker was off winging. It took the air half-way across the rolling field, and in half a minute Brannon was circling back The enemy was grouped in the field, while the spectators had remained motionless. Every head on the ground was tilted back to watch the ship. EZ] BRANNON, chuckling boyishly, aeece) nosed over with motor full on. He SSS“ dived like a rocket for that discon- certed group on the ground. He was barely five feet above the field, headed on a course that would carry him within a few feet of Grady and his henchmen, before he leveled out. As he shot past them his fingers wrig- gled a farewell to Grady. He zoomed upward an even four hundred feet and sped toward his rendezvous with Downs. With his right hand he got most of the core out of his pocket and dropped it into a small canvas bag, weighted with stones, which was hanging on the compass. He drew the drawstring tight and succeeded in tying a knot that would hold. To free his hands for this task he flew for a few seconds with the stick clamped between his knees, At the turn in the road which was his goal he saw Downs’ car. The Texan was stand- Ing at the edge of the pasture which paral- leled the highway. Down swooped the Fokker until the wheels were almost scrap- ing the ground. Then it banked to the right and zoomed upward at the same time in a beautiful chandelle. The canvas bag and the gun hurtled to the ground, fifty feet from where Downs was standing, and the Fokker straightened out for Donovan Field, running wide open. Brannon gave vent to several chuckles as his mind ranged back over the week-end. He had put an ace or two into Downs’ hand, at any rate. He wondered just what action Grady would take, if any. His own proce- dure was definitely decided if there was any trouble waiting for him at Donovan Field, although it was unlikely that they could catch him there. His story would be that 173 he had no idea that the little heap of earth there in the shack meant anything, and that he had taken a handful of it simply to annoy Grady. The gun was easily explained and excused because of Grady’s unwarranted attack on Saturday. There could be no proof that he had dropped the sample to Downs. If Grady did make any trouble, which was very doubtful, it would probably catch up with him at Laredo, on his way to Tam- pico. His trunks would be at the depot— Evans had promised to see to that. All he had to do was land, receive his final papers, which were ready, and catch the twelve o’clock train South. He could make that easily. Unless Slim had slipped up every- thing should go off like clockwork. It did. There was not a hitch in the smooth-running machinery of the field. At 11:50 he entered the Pullman. His bag- gage was checked, and his discharge and ample funds in the pockets of his well- tailored civilian clothes. Nor was there any trouble next day on the border. He crossed to Nueva Laredo without any delay save the regular customs routine. A week later he received a bulky letter postmarked “Lockville’”’ and addressed in Downs’ handwriting. There was a news- paper clipping, which Brannon perused first. ‘‘Solar No. 1 Comes in at Lockville. Production 900 Barrels a Day. Flush was the headline over a picture of the gusher spouting fifteen feet over the crownblock. The story below the picture really added little to the tale, except in details. The well was flowing in two-hour heads, making about eighty barrels to a head, and the opinion of experts was that the settled production would be five hundred barrels a day or thereabouts. There were statements from Grady and other Solar officials. He opened Matt Downs’ brief note. DEAR Jrmw:— I held on, and sold yesterday for $40,000 to Jesse Hamlin, the Southern representative. You met him—the fellow that called himself a creek-spe- cialist. The mysterious Nillon raised to five thousand Monday night, and I’d have sure sold out—had to, in the shape I was in—if it hadn’t been for you. Anything I own is at your service any time. Ada sends regards, and Doramay says to tell you to come back soon. We all echo that. As always—Mar«rrt. COMmMicloo S (©