Air Stories, April 1936 — page 43: what you’re looking at

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

GUNMAN’S GOLD on the gold value would more than pay the freight charges. The fact that he had lost the gold- carrying job piqued Don. It had meant much to him. It was almost as important as the mail contract he held. Besides, it gave his ’plane preference on any freights going into Pelican Lake Mine. He kicked savagely at a piece of ice. “‘T’ll get that contract back yet,’’ he muttered grimly. ‘‘ Something’ll be sure to turn up, and they’ll be glad to have me carry their gold.’’ The dark-featured man approached him as he went out on the ice. ““ Ready now ? ”’ he inquired. *“Yes,’’? Don barked. ‘‘ Get your out- fit aboard, and be sure your dogs are tied tightly.” “© Oh, I’ll watch that.”’ Don fancied he caught a sinister glance in the gimlet-like eyes of his prospective passenger. Instinctively he disliked the fellow, but couldn’t give a specific reason. While checking his fuel and oil sup- plies, Don thought about the loss of revenue from bullion freight-rates. ““Funny,’’? he muttered, ‘‘why a company should kick against high charges for so valuable a cargo. They usually want their stuff out in the fastest possible time. And I wonder who the hell this trapper is P His partner doesn’t talk much.”’ He turned in time to note the little man swing down from the cabin door. ““We’re all set here; you’d better take a look and see we’ve got our stuff stowed right.”’ Don glanced into the cabin, and rearranged a pile of dunnage near the door. He inspected the dogs tethered to ring-bolts set in the cabin walls. Great savage brutes they were, part Samoyed and part Malemute. A nasty, treacherous cross-breed, unlike the true Eskimo dog, and rather a mongrel mixture having all the bad points of the two strains and none of their good ones. Still, they were big, strong dogs ; not one of them weighing less than eighty pounds apiece. “"0.K.,’? he called after his inspec- tion. He slammed the cabin door, tried the handle, and then climbed into the cockpit. Three shots on the primer and he pushed a button on the instrument board. The high-pitched whine of the inertia starter rose to a shrill scream. He pulled back on the button. The starter clutch engaged with a whinnying squeal, and the prop. turned slowly, wavered on compression, and then re- volved swiftly as the first charge ‘* caught.’’ A moment later the engine was idling contentedly. Swinging into the wind, Don slapped the throttle wide open. The big 550-h.p. Wasp burst into a challenging roar, hurtled the ’plane across the ice and into the clear, crisp air. CHAPTER II Madness in Mid-Air S Pelican Lake fell rapidly astern, Don consulted his map. Moose- horn Lake lay a hundred and thirty miles ahead. He could reach it in one hour. Far below, he noted a man plodding along a winding creek. The twisted course of the creek had caused the man to walk almost ten miles in order to get two miles nearer his ultimate des- tination. No wonder the trappers now used aeroplanes to get to their trap- ping grounds. Journeys that used to take months of hard toil were now accomplished in two or three hours. True, it cost more, but on the other hand, the cost was more than made up by the larger catches. Suddenly the Fokker reeled. Bedlam broke out in the cabin behind. The ’plane rocked perilously, and Don snap- ped his stick about quickly to correct the sudden violent movements. A high- pitched snarl penetrated the thin bulk- head between the pilot’s compartment and the cabin. The machine yawed, skidded off on one wing, and then plunged like a fish well hooked. Despite his skill, Don could not regain control of his machine. First it would 329 COnniclooo SJ (SO)