FRIEND OR ENEMY?

Although the commander had spoken confidently of being able to make repairs to the damaged planes, examination soon showed that the task was to be no simple one. Fabric in sufficient quantity was stowed in the “hole,” and a fair supply of slender spruce frames, but when the rudder had been dismounted and laid on the sandy ground and its condition considered it became evident that their job was not to repair it but to build a new one. Only the post of aluminum alloy was undamaged. New braces must be fitted and new fabric stretched over the whole. It was no task of an hour or two, but one that would require the better part of a day. The horizontal plane on the starboard side of the ship was more easily mended, and that without dismounting. The tear in the envelope was of little consequence, and the hanging fabric was carefully cut away and laid aside to be used, if needed, in the other repairs; if not, to be replaced as best it might. By the time the broken rudder had been unshipped and made ready for repair the afternoon was drawing toward night and it was decided to attempt no more until the next day. Instead, measures for the safe anchoring of the dirigible were taken. A second cable was run from the forward end and made fast to a bar of aluminum driven into the dry soil. The breeze, which blew very nearly from the east, had increased slightly, and the balloon, nose into it, kept the guys taut. Clouds were banked high along the horizon to east and south, but overhead and in the other quarters the evening was clear and, as night descended, cool. A pale yellow radiance followed the sinking of the sun and continued for some time. The air was remarkably clear and light, and much exertion soon left one short of breath. Mr. Traine explained this by telling them that they were at an altitude of something over 3,400 feet.

That appeared to establish the fact that, in some inexplicable way, the dirigible had traveled back from the coast a matter of at least three hundred miles, for no such elevation lay nearer the Gulf. Bending over a map, the commander placed the points of his dividers down. “We must be somewhere about here,” he said, “close to the boundary between Coahuila and Chihuahua. Looks very much as if we’d got about where we started for,” he added with a laugh.

“That’s queer,” said Lieutenant Gandell. “But we certainly couldn’t have run off nearly seven hundred miles since midnight!”

“No, that’s what I don’t savvy,” replied Mr. Weeks. “The probable explanation is that we were much nearer the coast than we figured when we turned back.”

“Must have been,” the others agreed.

“How near is that town there?” asked Mr. Jordan, placing his finger on the map. “About forty miles?”

“Nearer sixty, if we’re where I think we are. This is a high plateau. The map calls it Llano de los Gigantes. I’d say we were on the border of it, about a hundred and eighty miles south of the Rio Grande. How we got here――――” He shrugged his shoulders.

“Main thing is, we’re here, what?” said Mr. Traine briskly. “Where’s Roza supposed to be, Bob?”

“Don’t know. Some say near San José. One of our planes reported what appeared to be an encampment further east, at a village called Perdero, which doesn’t show here. It’s safe to say he’s not as far south as this, anyhow. He’d starve to death here in a week. Besides, he couldn’t get back and forth across the border as quickly as he does from hereabouts. When we get fixed up again, though, we’ll have a look for him.”

“Well, we seem to be not much more than five hundred miles from home,” said Lieutenant Jordan cheerfully. “We can do that in eight hours if we have to. We’ve got rations to last another day or so, anyway.”

“Always thinking of your tummy, Sam!” laughed Mr. Gandell.

“Sure! Some one’s got to. Say, speaking about chow, how’d it do to build a fire down here and cook some bacon and one thing or another? Sort of be a change, wouldn’t it?”

“Good idea!” applauded the commander. “Wonder if we can find anything to burn?”

“There’ll be some dried stuff in those mesquite clumps, I guess. And we’ve got that busted rudder frame, too. Some of you boys forage for fuel while Dan and I get the grub down. How’d some beans go, gentlemen?”

“Don’t talk so much,” protested Mr. Gandell, “but get busy. I’m so hungry now I could eat a horned toad!”

“Come on, Hugh,” said Jack. “Let’s you and I find the fuel before it gets any darker. We aren’t much use as radio artists, so we’ll be stokers. This air up here surely does make a fellow hungry!”

“Yes, and I’d hate like anything to have to live off the country around here. I haven’t seen a live thing since we landed, except one lizard, and he looked half-starved!”

“Don’t believe I’d care to eat a lizard, even if he was corn-fed,” laughed Jack. “_Wow!_ Say, these bushes have spikes on ’em!”

“I’ve discovered that interesting fact already, my young friend. I’ve also discovered that when you kneel down it’s just as well to make sure that there are no cactuses present. Or do you say cacti?”

“I don’t say anything. I saw wood. I mean gather it. I don’t believe we’ll find enough of this silly stuff to cook with. I can’t find anything but twigs.”

“Get enough of them, son, and we’ll manage. Gee, but this is a forsaken hole!” Hugh stood up and gazed across the flat world, now darkening with shadows. Here and there patches of mesquite or cactus broke the surface of the sand, but even those had a discouraged look and seldom grew to a height of more than three feet. Westward, the sky was faintly aglow and overhead the stars were twinkling, cold and white. He shivered, partly because of the searching chill and partly from a sense of the utter loneliness and desolation of this Plain of the Giants, and followed Jack back to where the others were seated under the great bulk of the dirigible.

Mate Wason, to whom culinary duties fell, soon had the blaze started. The group drew closer about the little fire and watched almost in silence while the bacon was arranged in the pans and the coffee-pot was set to boil. The warmth was grateful, for this weather was far different from the climate of Camp Stanton. When silence fell they could hear only the whistling of the breeze in the mesquite and the rustling of dry branches and the creaking of the balloon as it tugged gently at the guys.

“Cheerful place, isn’t it?” asked Mr. Gandell. “I don’t suppose there’s a living soul within fifty miles. How’s the bacon getting on, Mate?”

“Ready in a couple o’ minutes, sir. It’ll have to be, ’cause there ain’t any more wood. Just as soon as I heat the beans I’ll yell.”

“And I’ll surely hear you,” said Mr. Gandell. “Man alive, but it’s cold! Funny how you always think of Mexico as being hotter than Tophet. This is sort of like an October night up in Maine or somewhere.”

“’Most as cold as it used to be in George’s Channel in July,” said Mr. Weeks. “Ever do your trick in a destroyer cage off Queenstown on one of those fine warm English nights, Pete?”

“No, but I know the sort of warm nights you mean. We had ’em in the North Sea, Bob. Why the water didn’t freeze there in August gets me!”

“Dinner is served, gentlemen,” announced Mate Wason.

“Mug up, folks!” cried Lieutenant Gandell, scrambling to his feet. “Let go my foot, Sam, or I’ll haul off and――――”

“Hold him, Sam, until I get mine,” begged Mr. Traine. “You know what he is when he gets his feet in the trough, what?”

The fire became only a bed of glowing embers before the last scrap of bacon was eaten and the final drop of coffee had disappeared, and after that, huddling close for warmth, the crew of the _F 8_, comforted by food, sleepy by reason of their long vigils, lay about the dying fire and talked lazily, the smoke of mesquite and tobacco mingling. To Jack, that evening was one long remembered. Sitting there under the frosty stars, the desert wind on his face, he listened to the conversation with eyes half closed and his head nodding back at times against Hugh’s knees. The loneliness of the empty llano made the sound of voices and the sense of companionship strangely pleasant.

Perhaps he actually slept for a few minutes. At least, he heard nothing of turning in until his support was suddenly withdrawn and he found Hugh laughing at him. The fire had died out now and the straight, ceaseless wind was colder than ever. They climbed back to the boat, Lieutenant Jordan pulling the ladder up after them to make sure, as he explained, that no rattlesnakes should follow. It was Mr. Jordan who volunteered to stand the first watch, and the others went below. There were but four of the tiny, narrow bunks, and Jack and the mate spread their blankets in the passage between. It was none too warm even down there, for that dry wind had a most penetrating quality, and more than once during the night Jack awoke with his very bones aching. Mate Wason relieved Mr. Jordan at midnight and at four Hugh piled out. Jack was more or less aware of the changes, for any one passing in or out by the companion had to walk over him if not actually on him!

They were all up before six. It was quite light and the breeze from the Gulf seemed more searching than ever. But breakfast, eaten in the shelter of the engine cockpit, brightened the world a lot, and by the time it was at an end the sun jumped up over the eastern edge of the desert. Soon every one was busy. Hugh and Jack dismounted the auxiliary antenna they had rigged beneath the hull, for an inspection of the wires within the envelope had shown them to be all right. After that Hugh practically pulled the wireless installation to pieces and in the end found the trouble, but although he spent the whole morning trying to make repairs he didn’t succeed. Many replacement parts had been provided, but, as luck would have it, what he needed was missing. Nor could the combined ingenuity of the two radio operators and Lieutenant Jordan make good the deficiency.

Meanwhile, the others were busy at the rudder. It was slow work, for many necessary tools and appliances were wanting. By noon the temperature had risen until leather coats were laid aside, and the heat of the fire which Mate Wason built to cook the midday meal with was avoided.

“We ought to be ready to get off by three or half-past, I’d say,” remarked Mr. Weeks. “How about patching that hole at the tail, Ben? Think it’s necessary?”

“No, but the old girl would look more shipshape if we sort of mended her up there, what? Don’t want Tito Roza to think we’re tramps!”

“All right,” laughed the commander, “we’ll see what we can do about it. Guess there’s fabric enough. No luck with the wireless, Clode?”

“No, sir. I guess it’s done for.”

“Well, it won’t matter, I suppose. I’d like to have reported to Headquarters, though. They’ll think we’ve come a cropper if they don’t get word before long. Can’t be helped, though.”

“Wonder what that hill over there is,” said Mr. Gandell, his gaze on the distant mesa that, to use his own phrase, stuck up from the plain like a sore thumb. “Looks to me――I say! What’s that off to the left of it? That’s no bird, is it?”

“No, it’s a plane,” exclaimed Mr. Weeks. “One of ours, do you think?”

“Might be,” said Mr. Gandell. “Pretty far south, though, and coming straight out of the northwest. Not likely, I guess.”

“Mexican, then. I’m not sure I like that.” Mr. Weeks gazed at the distant object for a moment before he continued. “How are your engines, Sam?”

“All right.”

“That chap’s got his eye on us. Headed right this way. If he wants to be nasty he can make it mighty unpleasant for us. Let’s get that rudder on.”

“He’s swinging south,” announced Hugh. “Maybe he doesn’t like our looks.”

But the airman was not running away, as was soon evident. Having worked well to the south, the plane banked and came back toward the dirigible. “About twelve hundred feet up,” said Mr. Weeks, “and――yes, he’s a Mex. That’s a French machine. Don’t see his colors, though. Here he comes. Sam, drop my binoculars down here, will you? Let’s have a look at the chap.” When the glasses were adjusted the commander continued his comments. “Two of ’em there. No insignia on the wings. That’s odd! By Jove! Get under cover! He’s training his machine-gun! Under the balloon, fellows!”

They scuttled, Mate Wason last, growling uncomplimentary remarks. The plane was nearly overhead now and the _zoom_ of its engine reached them. Looking up from the shelter of the dirigible, they could see plainly the faces of the two men in the airship; see, too, the glint of sunlight on the machine-gun. Then up went the tail and directly toward them raced the plane in a long, sharp dive. Mr. Weeks whipped out his automatic, the others following his example. Nearer and nearer swept the yellow stranger, growing bigger every instant, its nose pointed straight at the little group in the purple shadow of the balloon.

“The cheeky beggar!” growled Mr. Jordan, and raised his automatic.

“Wait!” commanded Mr. Weeks. “Don’t fire until they do! Maybe they’re only bluffing!”

The whirring of the propeller made a sound like the beating of many wings and it seemed that in another moment the airplane would bury its nose in the ground. Jack, gazing upward spellbound, his automatic ready, held his breath in mingled alarm and admiration. Then Mr. Week’s voice rang out sharply:

“Let ’em have it!” he cried.