Balancing expertly, he leaped along the wing. A vaulting spring landed him atop Whitey in the control cockpit of the plane.
“Pull a fast one on me, huh!” hissed Bandy and speared an accurate fist through the arms the pilot raised defensively.
The blow smacked loudly on the flyer’s temple! The man gurgled. Agony made his eyes stick out! He grabbed his throat protectively with both hands.
Bandy belted him on the exposed jaw. The pilot began to tremble and make the aimless, feeble gestures of a man half knocked out.
A .30–30 slug plowed past Bandy’s head with a sound akin to that of a breaking banjo string! The 5 ambushers were sprinting for the rolling plane, shooting as they came.
Lifting the dazed pilot bodily, Bandy threw him out of the ship. He knew which lever was the throttle. He knocked it wide open. The craft streaked forward.
More bullets lashed the plane. Bandy dived into the rear cockpit. It offered scant shelter. Lead gored the padded pit rim! A slug dug glass out of the instrument board and the fragments cut Bandy’s leathery face.
The plane took a goat-like bound. Bandy hastily cut the throttle, not wishing to leave the ground. The ship had veered to one side in its wild charge. Bandy saw shadowy trees shoving up ahead and hastily covered his face with his arms.
There was a jarring crash!
The ship spun. One wing had hit a tree. The craft nosed over with the prop digging up a cloud of grass and black earth. With a lazy crunching and a shrill tearing of doped fabric, the plane settled on its back.
Bandy was thrown out. He had not been harmed much. Bucking broncs had often given him worse shakings.
He heaved up and ran!
Trees grew thickly in the copse in which he found himself, and lead began scuffing off bark and clattering fiendishly among the branches. The howling voices of his pursuers reached his ears.
“Run, you galoots! We can’t let that hombre get away!”
Bandy hissed in astonishment as he recognized the voice.
“Huh! That guy is Buttons Zortell! He was workin’ on the job as a powder fitter until a couple of weeks ago!”
Collision with a tree silenced his rumination.
He ran more carefully, striving for silence. But he was too bow-legged to be graceful on the ground. He jarred small bushes noisily. Twigs cracked underfoot.
Buttons and the other pursuers followed the sounds. They gained steadily.
A woven wire fence abruptly confronted Bandy. The top was armored with 2 strands of barbed wire. Going over, he scraped his hands on the barbs and left behind a fragment of his coat.
Across an open pasture ahead stood low sheds. He legged it for these.
He made 100 yards… 150…
Then a bullet scraped through the grass underfoot. Gun sound lunged thunderously across the meadow and caromed in fainter gobbles from trees and buildings!
Bandy pitched alternately right-and-left as he ran, making himself a difficult target. He rounded the squat sheds.
About to go on with the buildings as shelter, he heard noisy stampings and blowings within the structures.
“Hosses!” he chortled and dived inside.
The stable shed held several sleek animals. They were saddlers, long-legged and graceful.
Bandy flung to the halter of the nearest horse. A single wrench freed the knot. He mounted.
Halters hung on a peg beside the door — 4 of them. Bandy grabbed all four as he rode out.
A few rods beyond was a stone fence. Bandy heeled the horse for the obstacle. The animal cleared it easily. Simultaneously, a fresh volley of rifle fire clapped out! Buttons and his men had rounded the sheds.
The pursuers did not stop for horses but came on.
Bandy found himself riding across an oat field. The grain — yellowing with ripeness — reached almost to his dangling feet. Across the middle of the field ran a small gully. Trees were scattered along this gulch. Bullets tore the foliage of these.
40 feet from the concealment of the trees, Bandy flung himself half off the horse, pretending to be hit. He guided the animal into cover. Then he worked swiftly.
With the 4 extra halters, he rigged a collar on the horse with traces reaching back on either side. To the ends of the traces, he tied what was left of his coat, forming a drag. He seated himself on that and clucked at the animal. The saddler ran away across the oat field, hauling the man.
It was an old trick of the Indians that Bandy was employing. He held onto the drag and kept his head below the level of the oats.
Buttons Zortell caught sight of the running horse. In the moonlight, he failed to discern the rude harness or the man it pulled.
“We winged ‘im!” Buttons yelled. “He fell off the cayuse! Look sharp, you hombres! He’s probably layin’ in that ditch somewhere!”
They began searching along the gully.
When a fence stopped the running horse, Bandy rolled off his improvised sled. Scratched and raw, he crept away.
A wide circle took him to the narrow road and to the spot where he had dropped his money-belt. He retrieved the belt. Then he set off down the road, running easily.
“Now to get in touch with this Doc Savage gent,” he told himself.
Unable to find a trace of his quarry, Buttons Zortell was cursing his men, himself, the moonlight, and whatever else came to his mind!
The frightened horse — its head up — loped about the oat field. Buttons suddenly discovered the halter ropes dragging behind the animal. He released a coyote-like howl of Rage!
“The bow-legged runt pulled a fast one on us!”
“I told you he was a bad jasper to monkey with,” muttered one of the men.
“We ain’t licked yet! Let’s see if we can locate ‘im.”
They conducted an intensive search. The spot where Bandy had left the pad dragged by the horse, they found. But that was all.
“C’mon!” ordered Buttons. “I’ve got another plan. And we gotta get away from here! Somebody is sure to look into all that shootin’.”
“What about my plane?” wailed the pilot. “It can be traced to me on account of the identification numbers painted on it.”
Buttons had no trouble solving that problem.
“We’ll burn it!”
They found the wrecked plane already drenched by gasoline which had leaked from a tear in the fuel tank. A lighted match thrown from a safe distance caused it to become bundled in roaring Flame.
The men ran to a car which they had secreted near the clubhouse. Not until the machine was bearing them speedily toward New York did one of the crew voice a question.
“What are we gonna do, Buttons?”
“Bandy is tryin’ to get to a hombre named ‘Doc Savage’. We’ll head ‘im off.”
“Blazes! How’d you find that out?”
The scar-cheeked leader leered knowingly. “The Big Boss told me before we left Arizona. Me and him listened through the cracks in a log shanty while Bandy was gettin’ his orders. Bandy was sent East to ask help from Doc Savage. He’s carryin’ a letter and a bunch of papers in that money-belt. We gotta keep Bandy and his belt from gettin’ to Savage!”
“How?”
Buttons growled fiercely.
“I’ll show you!”
Headlight beams waved stiffly ahead of the fast-moving car. Night insects looked like fluttering bits of white paper embedded in the white glare. Tire treads sucked and whistled on the pavement.
One of the men put a query. “Who is this ‘Doc Savage’?”
“I’ll tell you the thing about ‘im that hit me most,” Buttons replied grimly. “The Boss has never seen Doc Savage. And yet he’s scared stiff of the gent!”
“The Boss scared?” The questioner snorted unbelievingly. “With an organization like the Boss has, he shouldn’t be leery of anybody.”