Chapter XIV

Ernest turned to the boy with the rifle who was standing guard over the wonderful, strange thing that had alighted in his father's meadow, and was satisfied. Cool, clear, honest blue eyes stared back and met his gaze fairly.

"Don't you be feared," said the boy. "They won't come apast that scratch. You kin trust me. Ma and Pa trusts me with the roan colt."

"The one you were riding?" asked Ernest.

"Naw, not that," the boy laughed. "You git on, less'n you want to answer four million questions. You kin leave her with me. They won't come apast that scratch, and I kin skeer 'em off with this. They know I kin shoot."

He patted the long, lean rifle lying along his arm, and Ernest knew that in truth he could not leave the airplane in safer hands.

He followed Bill and the farmer's family across the slope, Frank lounging along beside him. They did not talk. Frank staggered as he walked, he was so tired, and Ernest, who was accustomed to long flights, was silent too. The pain in his arm was about all he could bear, and he did not feel in the mood for talking to the fellow who had injured him. So they moved silently across the soft sod, the farmer and his wife talking busily to Bill. The two children and the three dogs ran and frolicked in the rear. From the distant second growth the herd gazed out, still suspicious. They had almost forgotten to chew their cuds!

The roly-poly farmer's wife gave them a feast. Home-cured ham and home-laid eggs and corn pone and jam and jelly and cake and molasses and all sorts of good things besides, including cream to drink--real cream, all blobby on the sides of the glass. Bill thought he would never get enough to eat, and even Frank consumed about enough for two boys. As soon as the meal was over, Ernest made Bill go and lie down on Webby's bed. Frank was given the narrow horsehair sofa in the stuffy parlor, but Ernest knew that Bill must sleep in an airy room, and the parlor had not been opened since the war of '60 to judge by the musty closeness of it. Ernest himself was in too much pain to rest so he sat and talked aviation with the farmer for a few minutes and then they went down to the lot to take a look at the machine. The farmer's wife had stacked her dishes and was there before them.

Not even his mother was allowed inside the scratch by the important and faithful Webby. He stood guard beside the machine, enjoying the proudest moment of his life. In after years, when Webby, goaded on by that fateful landing, had gained the highest rung of fame's ladder, his triumph was little compared to that clear sunset time in the pasture when he stood guard over the wonder-car that had come from the sky with its pilot and passengers scarcely older than himself.

When Ernest approached, the crowd surged forward, but Webby sternly drove them back.

There were growls from the outsiders, who yearned to step over the danger line and look and handle and if possible go off with a bit of wire or string or what not, as a keepsake. But Webby was adamant, although he was obliged to make dates for the following day with three boys who insisted on fighting him out of revenge.

One glance at the plane assured Ernest that everything was exactly as he had left it. He thanked Webby and asked him what he would like best--a payment of money or a flight.

"Druther fly," said Webby promptly, laying down his rifle and starting toward the car.

"I can't fly it myself now," said Ernest, "but when the other boy comes down from the house he will give you a little turn. If we had time, we could stay here for a day or so. This is the finest field for landing that I have seen in a long time. But we are in a great hurry, and all we can do for you to-night is to give you a short spin."

When Bill came down, his eyes heavy with sleep, he found Webby restlessly pacing up and down before the car, and a silent, attentive crowd of natives waiting to see what was going to happen. Webby's parents did not know enough about aviation to feel any fear for their son, and watched with unspeakable delight as Ernest with his one arm and Bill with his two sound ones, pulled the plane around to face the wind, settled Webby in his seat and started the engine.

"Don't go more than fifty feet above the ground, and keep over the field if you can," whispered Ernest in Bill's ear.

"Aren't you going up?" asked Bill.

"No use; you can manage it all right," said Ernest, "and I will stay here and keep an eye on Frank. He needs watching. He would lose himself in the swamp for a cent. He is in a bad state of mind. I hope he is, too. Perhaps he will come to realize what he has done."

"I hope so," said Bill. "Can't we leave as soon as I give that kid a turn? I want to get along. It seems as though we were hanging around here an awful while."

"Land over by the bars if you can," said Ernest. "It will be fun to see this outfit scamper over, and besides it will be closer to the gasoline tank."

"All right," replied Bill, tuning up the engine. He skimmed along the field while a wild, shrill shout went up from the observers. They commenced to trail excitedly after, and stood hopping up and down and tossing their hats in excitement as the graceful car left the ground and sailed smoothly into the air. Bill found that flying, rising and lighting the second time was much easier than the first. He had lost what little awkwardness he had had in the beginning, and the machine moved with a smooth freedom. He wished that he had eyes in the back of his head so he could see Webby. But if he _had_ seen Webby, he would not have laughed. Webby, watching the old familiar earth drop away, felt exalted; he felt as though he had suddenly become a creature of some finer, rarer place. When Webby told about it next day, he said, "I felt like I was a chicken just hatched fum out an aig," but Webby said that because words were hard things and difficult to handle. He really thought of angels and made up his mind then and there to be a great man.

Bill made the landing on the other side of the field as Ernest had suggested, and he and Webby sat in the car and laughed as the audience streaked across to them. Webby shook just a little when he stood once more on solid earth, and he was more silent than ever. But when Ernest came up he said in a low tone: "Say, ain't there books about this here?"

"What you want is a magazine," said Ernest, "and I will send you mine as soon as I have read it."

"Every time it comes?" asked Webby. "Say, you are good!"

"That's all right," said Ernest, "only take one piece of advice. The flying will keep. Just you _keep on going to school_. You will need all sorts of learning, especially mathematics."

"Ho; I kin _eat_ figgers!" boasted the boy.

"That's good," said Ernest, shaking his hand. "Now, good-bye. I have left my address with your mother. If you will write me next week, I will send you that magazine."

They said good-bye to the kindly farmers, having filled up with gas, settled Frank in his seat, and arose just as a great white moon showed itself over the trees.

Once more they were off. With good luck they would reach their destination early the following day. Bill was tired, deadly tired; but he thought of the pain Ernest must be suffering from his wounded arm and settled himself to his task with dogged determination. He had never been up after dark, and the sensation was a new one. He was glad to have Ernest beside him. As they rose, a couple of enormous birds sailed out of their way. Eagles or buzzards; he did not know enough of the country to be able to tell which. He was conscious of a feeling of dizziness and fatigue. Everything he had ever heard about side slipping, tail spins, nose dives--in fact, all the accidents that might befall an aviator passed through his mind in gruesome procession. He looked down at the compass, now beginning to show its luminous dial, and saw that they were really going in the right direction. As he looked down, he commenced to feel a stranger to the many levers and knobs before him. He knew them all, knew them like a book; at least he had. Now they were slipping, slipping away from him. He could not remember what they were for.

He felt rather than saw Ernest motion him upward. As he climbed through the cutting air, he plunged into a dense bank of cloud. The thought flashed over him that if the plane turned over there in unlighted space, he would not be able to right it again. As they passed once more into the clear air, it was as though they were plunged into a bath of liquid silver. The moon, immense and coldly luminous, had risen and hung in the sky huge and pale. If the morning sun had turned every wire and blade to gold, the moon silvered the whole plane. Space about them stretched off dim and threatening. Bill shivered. His clutch on the wheel loosened and the engine coughed twice.

Bill felt his nerve die within him. Then a voice clear and sweet seemed to speak. It was so clear that he glanced toward Ernest to see if he too heard. Twice he heard his name called, then the dearest voice in the world said clearly:

"All's well, sonny. We are waiting. You will be in time."

With a start Bill knew that his mother was speaking. Where she was he did not know, but he heard her. All his fear, his indecision and his nervousness faded away. He glanced at the dial of the clock. It was just nine. The long, hard night was ahead of him, but he could make it. He set the wheel and risked a look at Ernest. He had not spoken, and he had not heard. With his well arm he was nursing the broken one, and as Bill looked at him he once more motioned upward. So they went soaring up, up and still up, into silver-shod space, above ink-black masses of cloud that held the silver rays of the moon on their upper surfaces as though they were cups.

As they sped on a wind began to blow behind them. It raced with them, caught them, hurled them forward with incredible speed. Bill held his course steadily, remembering "tail up!" as he tore onward. They were now so high that the earth was not even a shadow below them.

Suddenly as though flung through a doorway, they fell into one of those strange freaks of the upper air called a "pocket." It is a vacuum, and most dangerous.

The plane shook and wavered, but Bill set himself for a downward course and glided across the perilous area. As they emerged and struck the wind again, the plane slipped dangerously, but Bill warped the planes and set the ailerons with all the speed he could, and presently the indicator before him registered an even keel and the danger past.

Silently Ernest reached over and patted Bill's shoulder. Bill scarcely noticed. He was no longer afraid, no longer nervous. He had come into his own--and his mother was waiting for him! He would not fail her. She expected him. He would be there. How or why she knew that he was coming he could not guess, but he had heard her voice. Bill settled back in his seat and felt that he was master of his machine. And, better still, he was master of himself. Never again would he lose control of his nerves. He wondered how he had ever done so. In the darkness he smiled.

Hour after hour sped by. Bill was experiencing one of the peculiar things about air voyages. Time seemed to be obliterated and he did not feel the slightest fatigue. All the usual sensations of the human body seemed to disappear just as the earth had disappeared. On and on flew the plane. Once more he glanced at Ernest. It seemed as though he had slipped down in his seat. Bill wondered if he was tired. Darkness crept over the intense moonlight like a veil, and Bill realized that the moon was gone. He kept his course, however, with the aid of his indicator and the air compass and at last a new light commenced to show, the cold, cheerless, dun light of early dawn. As yet there was no sign of the sun.

Bill wondered if, in the night, he had flown past Fort Sill. It was certainly time they were approaching it. He slowed the engine down as much as he dared, and waited for more light. As day came, he saw that he was indeed over the bleak, cheerless wastes of Oklahoma, but as yet there was no sign of the great Post.

At last, far, far ahead he saw it; a great city, part of it forsaken and dismantled now that the war was ended and the need of trained troops not so important. He dropped a little as he recognized his location. He scanned Old Post lying on its low eminence, with the white hospitals spreading over their area, New Post with its wide parade ground and its trim rows of officers' quarters staring primly at the departmental buildings built in the old Mexican fashion on the other side of the parade.

Donovan, with its splendid roads and miles of skeleton tent frames, and nearer Bill recognized with a quickly beating heart the squat, ugly quarters and class buildings of the School of Fire.

Now on the instant there came to Bill a daring idea. Back of the quarters where his mother and dad lived, a wide level space stretched out to a bluff under which ran a sluggish stream called Medicine Creek. It was a good-sized field, but of course not nearly the size of Aviation Field lying far the other side of the Post. Nevertheless Bill made up his mind to land there. He circled the Post, rising as he did so to a high altitude, and leaving the plain he wished to land on far behind.

He knew that he must be careful, as too great speed in striking would drive the plane forward into the Students' building lying broadside.

If he approached from the other direction, a false landing would send them over the cliff into the trees and underbrush along the creek bank.

But he knew that he could do it, and he did. The plane came down at a perfect angle, reached the earth just at the edge of the bluff, hopped gayly along toward the class building, turned in response to his hand on the wheel, and stopped almost opposite his mother's back door.

Bill turned and looked at Ernest. He was lying low in his seat in an almost fainting condition. Frank, with closed eyes, looked deathly in the early morning light. Bill struggled out of his seat, and stood shakily beside the plane, undoing his helmet. A group of orderlies and janitors ran up, and several officers in more or less undress appeared on the porches. Bill, reeling, walked over to his mother's door.

She herself opened it, clasped him in her arms, and gave a cry of delight.

"Bill, darling, you have _grown_!" she cried, and then as an after-thought, "How _late_ you are! I have been watching for you for an hour."