The Sky Pilot's Great Chase Jack Ralston's Dead Stick Landing
CHAPTER I
THE CLANG OF THE FIRE BELL
“Well, I kinder guess now this here little ol’ ho-tel in Salt Lake City’s got our experience in Cheyenne knocked all to flinders. Good room, twin beds that keep you from hoggin’ all the covers on a cool night an’ as to eats, say it’s sure prime stuff, though mebbe I ain’t no judge ’long any line ’cept quantity. How ’bout it, Jack, ol’ hoss?”
The happy-go-lucky speaker was an old friend of ours, one Perk, and the companion to whom he addressed his question was his bosom pal, Jack Ralston of the U. S. Secret Service. Nevertheless, it seemed that Perk was now known as Gabe Smith, a woods guide of wide experience who in the course of his wanderings had managed to pick up a smattering of aviation, a particularly useful thing in these air-minded days.
And Jack, whenever there was a third party within hearing, was always referred to as Mr. John Jacob Astorbilt, a wideawake young millionaire sportsman always seeking novel thrills hunting big game by means of the latest type airship.
All this had a good and sufficient reason back of it, which will be placed before the reader ere we have gone deeply into this log covering the latest undertaking of the two redoubtable sky detectives.
“Oh! things suit me okay, Perk,” was Jack’s rather indifferent reply, as he smiled at his companion’s grinning, enthusiastic face. “Somehow I don’t seem to set quite as much store by my meals as you do but I’ll say the food is pretty decent – better than the restaurant stuff we used to eat three times a day over in old Cheyenne.”
“Hot ziggety dog! I should say so. But what tickles me most of all, partner, is the dandy ship Uncle Sam turned over to us after we climbed out o’ all that hot stuff down on the west coast o’ Florida. She’s a genuine cloud-chaser, boy, an’ don’t take any guy’s dust – am I right ’bout that, Boss?”
“I’ll admit she’s a prize boat and no mistake. Able to drop down on land or water and with skis in place could do the same on a frozen lake or the deepest snow the Northland ever saw. Yes, it would be hard to beat our ship, Perk.”
“Right up to date she is. Look at the shiny aluminum pontoons an’ rubber tired wheels peekin’ out from the bow ends. The Hamilton propeller that does its stuff to the dot; a real Hasler Telmot Flight Meter; aluminum oil tanks so light and yet so strong; earth-inducter compass next to infallible; Eclipse Starter – gosh amighty, if there’s a single thing worth its salt that our ship ain’t got I’d like to hear ’bout it.”
Jack laughed. He had a whole-souled laugh that did any one good just to hear it – kind of gave you a warm feeling and seemed to draw you into friendly relations with the clear-eyed young aviator.
“Just one thing lacking, partner, in the round-up if you stop to think of it. We felt the need of it on our last jaunt1 when in the midst of the most dreadful fog-belt either of us had ever struck, we climbed to a ten thousand foot ceiling only to have ice begin to form on our wings. Haven’t forgotten that, eh, Perk old fellow?”
“Ginger pop an’ the weasel! I guess now I ain’t. You’ve crabbed my game, buddy, that’s what you’ve done. But as we ain’t, so far, been sent to the South Pole to help get an explorer out o’ his bad fix in the ice, I kinder guess we don’t need that ice meltin’ device much. Got to draw a line somewhere you know, Boss, else the ship’ll be so loaded down with new contraptions there won’t be any storage room for the grub-pile!”
“And sure enough that’s where the shoe would pinch, Perk. Grub, and plenty of it is the real necessity to have aboard. It bobs up just three times a day right along and with mighty long waits between according to your way of looking at it.”
“You said it, partner! I’ve tried goin’ shy on the eats but it don’t seem to work worth a red cent. Right away there’s a mutiny breaks put under the midship hatch an’ I jest got to surrender. But, to change the subject, I’m botherin’ my poor brain tryin’ to figger out which way we’ll face when the orders come breezin’ along?”
Jack chuckled as he lolled back in his comfortable easy-chair for they chanced to be sitting in their third-floor hotel room while engaging in this little confab.
“It’s a toss-up I’d say, Perk,” he remarked a bit mysteriously. “You know the whole wide world is our hunting ground as you’ve so often boasted. International crooks breed a like species of detectives. When they take to flying, the Secret Service has to go them one better. Our familiarity with airships helped to rustle this job for us and we’ve got to make good, no matter whether we fly to Japan, India, South Africa or any other old country under the sun.”
Perk displayed the proper amount of enthusiasm as this wide subject came along, for his eyes sparkled, and he grinned broadly.
“You bet, Jack ol’ hoss,” he blurted out, “an’ like’s not the slick way we put through that last deal down on the west Florida coast, fetchin’ the king o’ booze smugglers back with us to the bar o’ justice has made us solid with the Head at Washington.”2
“I shouldn’t wonder buddy,” was all Jack said, not being given to blowing his own horn as Perk often did, being only human as he would explain, and knowing a good thing when he saw it.
“We dropped in at this ’ere airport,” Perk continued, “’cordin’ to orders a hull week back, sailin’ under new names to hide our identities an’ here we be, killin’ time an’ waitin’ to make a bee line for any place that happens to be in need o’ cleanin’ up. We’re the boss outfit for that sorter job, on’y I’d give a heap to know what’s what.”
“That’s a weakness of yours, Perk. Now in my case it doesn’t give me one minute’s uneasiness. Whether I’m working in Paris, Cairo or Timbuktu makes no difference, I calculate on getting enough to eat, pick up plenty of sleep and beat the game if its possible. Nothing else will satisfy me, as you pretty well know, brother.”
“When I happen to wake up in the small hours o’ the night, Jack, I just get bothered ’bout the next layout and sometimes wonder if I’m right then an’ there across the Pacific or playin’ a swift game down in Nicaragua f’r instance. Feels a whole lot like we might be reg’lar gypsies, changin’ our camp every night.”
“Well, what of it?” demanded Jack, looking vastly amused. “It wouldn’t be the first time that name was applied to me for you remember when I first broke into this game it was as a gypsy pilot, doing stunts with my ’chute at county fairs and Harvest Homes all around the country. That name always did sound kind of sweet in my ears. I like it to this day, in fact.”
“Mebbe now, it might be that you could give a sorter guess ’bout that job we’re goin’ to have tacked on to us right away? How ’bout it, old hoss?”
“Oh! that doesn’t concern me one whit, Perk. Just hold your horses and take things as they come. There’s a bit of fun being kept in the dark about these affairs. Makes me think of the times we used to have grab-bags at church fairs, when you paid a penny or a nickel and pulled out something queer. Say, didn’t we feel a great big thrill just before making the grab? Take things easy and let the folks at Headquarters do most of the worrying. That’s what I call logic, buddy.”
“Huh! mebbe so,” grunted Perk, eyeing his comrade quizzically as though more than half suspecting that if Jack chose, at least he could give a fairly good guess covering their next thrilling assignment. “But that sorter philosophy don’t cut any figger when I lie awake nights cudgelin’ my slow-workin’ brains an’ tryin’ to get the answer. But then, like as not, we ain’t goin’ to stick to this queer old burg much longer an’ I sure do hope the wire
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