Air Stories, April 1936 — page 49: what you’re looking at

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

GUNMAN’S GOLD Using a pair of pliers, he kept turning the broken member until the crack was thoroughly impregnated with molten brass. He turned his firepot down a trifle and added more spelter. Soon the crack was filled, and he built the break up with his remaining material. When the repair cooled, he had obtained an excellent brazing job. Working swiftly, he wondered if the valve springs would be too strong for the temporary repair. Taking no chances, he filed one coil from the valve spring. This would have to suffice. Time was fleeting, and he must catch up on the fugitives. ITH the rocker-arm in place, Don breathed a silent prayer, tossed his equipment back into the ’plane and climbed into the cockpit. The inertia starter squealed its doleful song, and the engine sputtered a moment and then burst into a roar. Don’s jaw set in a grim line. The hour of reckoning was at hand. The matter had now become a personal one. Those devils had deliberately sought to ruin his beloved engine. They had shot down a youngster without giving him a chance to defend himself; besides, they had given him the fright of his life by letting their dogs get loose while in the air. Don looked through a smother of snow towards the temporary camp where Kitty was administering to the wounded man. She waved an arm encouragingly as he swung down wind ready for the take-off. The big 550-h.p. Wasp blasted snow and ice particles astern in savage fury as she lifted the Fokker into the air. Hell-bent on an avenging mission, the faithful engine roared a _ challenging song. Don, his blue eyes frosted, held his ’plane low. He had not the slightest idea of what he would do when he sighted the bandits. He had no rifle ; it had been left behind in Fraser. He had nothing but the small pistol, and that was of little use. The cat- trail was protected by spruce trees most 335 of the way into town. He couldn’t swoop down and panic the dogs. He decided to trust to the gods to supply the answer to his problem. A few moments later he spotted the men he was pursuing. They were lashing and urging the dogs to greater speed. They cast anxious glances up- wards at the ’plane that was roaring down on them like red Nemesis. Don was in a dilemma. If he landed near them, the rifleman could shoot him down without mercy. If he went on to Fraser they might turn off the trail and be hard to locate. The Mounties would get them, but Don didn’t want that. He wanted to get them himself, Then he would have a convincing argu- ment as to why he should carry the gold shipments in future. It was even pos- sible these men might turn off the trail and head in another direction. If they did this they had only to set out three trees on a lake surface, and that would be a signal for the Northern Air Lines’ ’planes to land. No, he couldn’t take any chances; he must get them while the getting was good. He relied on the supposition that they didn’t know the trail ahead. They could follow it easy enough, but they didn’t know the terrain. Just ahead was a small lake, and they must cross this lake. He decided to land there and await their arrival. Don cut his engine and glided down on to the frozen surface of Wolf Lake. He felt for the girl’s pistol. It was in his pocket. He swung down from the cockpit and hurried towards a clump of brush near the edge of the trail. He was not a moment too soon. The crunching creak of cariole runners on the frost-laden snow was already audible. The wild yapping of the dogs drowned the sound of his movement, as he tensed ready for a jump, the pistol firmly gripped in his hand. HE running figure of a man came around the sharp bend in the trail. It was the dark-featured man. He carried a rifle at the ready, and his ferret eyes were taking in every detail CoOnmniclooo SJ (Cl Q)