The Boy Scouts of the Air in Indian Land Part 30

"I must believe it, for I have seen it with my own eyes," continued the speaker, a slender young fellow with a spare blond mustache. "You accomplished a feat there, my boy, that I wouldn't attempt for fifty thousand dollars!"

"Who are you?" asked Fly weakly. Surely this was an apparition. The nerve which had upheld him in the face of imminent danger seemed now deserting him. He felt like falling over in a limp heap, abandoning himself to the sick faintness which made his head swim. He saw the stranger as in a haze, and his voice came to him faintly out of the vast distance.

"I'll get him some water," said the other man. "He looks sick."

"No wonder," exclaimed the other. "I never saw such a performance as that in my life."

"Is--is that plane yours?" asked Herb, who, like Fly, did not know whether the two strangers were real beings or ghosts.

"Sure. I just had a silly little breakdown. Stopped to mend it.

Then--great Caesar, I saw you fellows up there. How my brain went traveling when I realized the plight you were in. And you came through!

A couple of kids! Who is he?" he continued, referring to Fly. "Where did he learn to control like that--at his age!"

The speaker's friend was forcing Fly to drink the water he had brought for him from the stream, and when the boy had moistened his lips, the man bathed his brow and face with the solicitude of a brother.

But Fly's sinking spell was only momentary and he soon recovered his composure.

"Where you going?" demanded their new friend breezily. "I'm going to take charge of you. You're in no condition to fly any more to-day."

But the young aviator was made of stronger stuff.

"Oh, I can handle her all right," he said contemptuously, a little ashamed of the weakness he had shown.

"What!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the blond young man, looking at his friend in amazement, as much as to say, "Listen to that, will you!"

"Nothing doing," he added, decidedly. "Barkely, just take care of our baby--follow us up--while I whirl this young dare-devil to--where will it be?"

"Fort Bayard," said Herb, laughing. Certainly, this was an engaging young fellow, and he didn't mind having him along at all.

"Now, young man, I'm going to throw you out of that seat if you don't move over, and let me run this thing!" commanded the stranger. "Hike!"

Fly good-naturedly gave way, for he shared Herb's admiration and was thoroughly pleased with this new acquaintance.

"Who--who are you?" asked Fly again, as the machine ascended.

"That's what I want to know about you," returned the stranger. "I'll tell if you will. My name's Chance."

"Chance!" gasped the boys at once.

"Sure. Ever hear of me?"

"You bet," answered Herb heartily. "You know Hawke, don't you?"

"Hawke the government aviator?" repeated the stranger in surprise.

"Yep."

"Well, he helped us to build this machine, and taught us how to run it,"

informed Fly.

"Build this machine?" Young Chance scrutinized his informant as he would look upon a strange, supernatural being.

"Say," he said. "We want fellows like you in New York. You wouldn't mind making some good money, would you?"

"I--I--" began Fly, but he could not wield his tongue somehow.

"Got a father around the Fort?" asked the young aviator brusquely.

"Yes--yes," answered Fly. "You must meet him."

That evening, when Herb met the boys returning from their mountain trip, triumphantly bearing the Thunder Bird, which Dunk and Jerry carried with the aid of a stout branch stuck through its bound feet, and happily flashing the golden bowl, he ceremoniously held up his hand for them to halt, demanding silence.

"We formed a Boy Scout patrol," he began strangely. "Didn't we?"

"Why--yes," replied Fred, wonderingly.

"That's nothing." Herb wrinkled his nose contemptuously. "And shot a grizzly?" he interrogated.

"Why yes," answered Gray, regarding him with a puzzled expression.

"That's nothin'," repeated the southerner. "We built an aeroplane," he went on. "That's nothin'. Mere trifle. We shot the Thunder Bird.

Nothin', nothin' at all. That bowl's nothin'."

"Say, what you driving at," exclaimed Jerry. "Spit it out quick, or you to the bug house."

"Because something has happened that makes everythin' else look like a thunder clap when it quits."

"What?"

"Fly's goin' to New York to be an aviator with Chance!"

Vacation is over. We are again waiting for the train in the stuffy little depot at Silver City. Gray and Fred are there--they are going back to school. Mr. Phipps is there, smiling happily upon the handsome boy who is returning to college. Captain Crawford and his wife are there, proud of the stalwart young son they are sending to New Jersey, where he will complete his education at Princeton. Lieutenant Rivers and his wife are there, for Dunk is going to an eastern medical school.

And Carl is there, for Carl too is going to college. True, he lost the money he had saved for the purpose, but the golden bowl, which the boys persuaded him was his by right of conquest, proved to be of sufficient value to pay his way through and leave him a generous surplus. Thus, after all, the unselfish Indian realized his dream.

One of the boys is missing--Fly. He left a month ago for New York, where he has already met Mr. Chance, and is showing promise of being one of the most successful bird-men of the day. Before leaving the Fort, he gave all of the boys sufficient instruction to enable them to fly alone, and to qualify for the aviation medal, which, with a number of other awards, for first aid, machinery, marksmanship and stalking, were promptly awarded to the members of the Thunder Bird Patrol, at the recommendation of Hawke, who remembers them now and then with letters from Juarez.

The _Thunder Bird_ aeroplane is safely packed away at the Phipps ranch, where it is to remain until next summer, for, if all turns out well, the boys are again to spend their next vacation in New Mexico.

As for the Thunder Bird himself, stuffed and mounted it occupies a prominent place in the Phipps ranch-house. So hideous is its aspect even in this harmless condition, that you would not care to stumble on it unawares in the dark, but it no longer makes nightly visits to the sheepfold for prey.

The treacherous redskin, his idol dead, has disappeared, and, according to Tommy, has gone back to the Mexican gold fields.

The antiquated train finally reaches the old depot, puffing and blowing as though short of breath. Our young friends scramble into the dusty coaches, stumbling over their suit cases, and b.u.mping good-naturedly against one another.

There are reluctant but cheerful good-byes, and the wheels turn slowly, gathering speed as the last coach pa.s.ses the station. The last we see of it, handkerchiefs are still fluttering and hats waving farewell.