Bill Barnes Air Adventurer, July 1935 — page 96: what you’re looking at

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

94 BILL BARNES Us? Hell, no! course !” Scarface’s ugly visage broke into a mirthless, satanic grin as the idea fil- tered into his warped brain. “You mean 2 tie stared. at Skip’s wide-eyed, bleak, haggard face. “Yeah,” nodded Fisheyes carelessly. “We'll take this mug along with us— as far as Death Valley. At twenty thousand feet we'll push him out, with- out a parachute. He'll dig his own grave from that altitude. They'll never find a trace of him. And that'll be our air-tight alibi! “Mail ship looted, co-pilot murdered, pilot missing with the cash. And he'll never be found, either. Foolproof, eh? We won’t even have to go to Mexico. They’ll have this rat indicted for murder and robbery in twenty-four hours. But they’ll never find him in the desert ; not after he drops four miles!” “Yeah |= Yeah! <Scarince ¢loated, rubbing his hands together. ‘There’ll be no squawks back on this job, either. We can split two ways only, eh?” | Understandingly they nodded at each other. The missing pilot, of IN Skip’s bfain, the idea that had been teasing him took shape. were alert and bright, not at all like those of a condemned man, when the air bandits slung him between them and dumped him unceremoniously atop the four sacks of money in the cabin of the black monoplane. Scarface slid into the pilot’s seat, still buckling on his parachute pack, while the other bandit cranked the inertia starter. The whining grind of the starter filled the forest air, then the radial barked, sputtered, and roared into life. Fisheyes climbed into the cabin beside the pilot, stowed his parachute comfortably, and slammed the door shut. On his lumpy bed of currency Skip felt the monoplane bump along as it His eyes © gained speed for the take-off. Scarface turned and leered at him. “You're going for a ride, mug!” he shouted above the crescendo whine of the laboring engine. Skip said nothing. Fisheyes paid no heed to him. © Then the bumpiness ceased and Skip knew they were in the air, bound for Death Valley. He could not see out of the cabin, but he could feel the ship climbing steadily, soaring for altitude. “He’s climbing plenty, all right,” Skip muttered ruefully. Mentally he visualized his finish. A brief hesitation of the monoplane over Death Valley, twenty thousand feet below. Fisheyes would open the cabin door and Skip would be shoved out, bound, helpless, doomed. Almost he could feel the long, sickening, breath- taking plunge to an untraceable death in the lonely desert below. He would never be found. At twenty thousand feet the plane would be almost invisible from the ground. And he would hit with such force as to bury himself com- pletely. Back in San Francisco he would leave a black record, never to be cleared, of murder and robbery. A _ record of treachery, of unfaithfulness. A record that would stand against him forever. While Washington would wonder if its roving aéronautics’ inspector had been tempted by the opportunity for sudden wealth and had betrayed the confidence reposed in Skip. Skip Davis grinned at the forbidding picture. Fortunately both the air maraud- ers were intent on the continued climb of the monoplane and did not see Skip’s face. Eyes watchfully on the two bandits, Skip carefully doubled up with the effort of fishing the tiny pair of pliers from their secret hiding place. Silently he worked the little instru- ment out and at the expense of lacerated wrists he forced the cutting blades oO mM CO Ghook CO