Part 3

He put temptation from him. He was dimly aware that he had played his trump card, as far as Forell was concerned. He hammered on along the same line--insulting, threatening, daring the snarling, hot-eyed pilot before him with a tongue tipped in vitriol and eyes that glowed their hate.

Suddenly Forell drew himself up tensely, and there were tears in his eyes as he shouted hysterically--

“All right, ---- you, we’ll go to ---- together just to prove that you can’t bluff me!”

He was trembling as he got into the front cockpit, and started the motor. Finley walked at the left wingtip as the ship taxied to the upper right-hand corner of the field, and there he helped swing it around. The rocks under the wheels, he got in. He was tight-lipped and grim-faced as he settled himself for his worst ordeal in eighteen years of flying.

What kind of a pilot would that quivering, hysterical youngster in the front seat be when he was flying for his life? The Kink was sure he was going to his death.

The Liberty roared into life, the throttle all the way ahead. The taut Finley felt the stick jam forward. An instant before the tires jumped the rocks the tail was in the air. Nose low to the ground, the Briston sped for the left hand opening between tree and forest.

Finley’s hand was on the stick, his feet on the rudder, lightly. The right wingtip scraped past the tree with scarcely two feet to spare. At that instant the right rudder went on, and the ship angled for the corner of the field. It was headed for the lower right-hand angle of the field, now, where towering trees were like sentinels, alert to repel it.

The time had long passed when there was any chance of turning back. It was all or nothing, now. The ship was off the ground, rushing for those trees, barely five feet above the ground. It was nosed down slightly, gathering speed. Now the trees were dancing right in front of his eyes.

There Forell pulled back. The Briston shot upward, losing speed rapidly. It barely cleared the topmost branches as he leveled it off. It mushed downward, and there came a drag on the under-carriage.

Suddenly Forell was leaning forward as if to help his ship onward. With all his natural genius for estimating flying speed and the capabilities of a plane he fought it--fought to keep it in the air. In his desperation it seemed to the older man, straining forward against his belt, that the Kink worked up speed and tore the ship from those clinging branches by his own strength.

It was free. For a moment, banking ever so slightly, Forell held it level to gather speed. Then, the Liberty roaring triumphantly, the Briston winged its way upward like some suddenly liberated bird.

Finley relaxed limply. Somehow he was very weary. He was glad everything was all right, and that one of the most brilliant young pilots in the service had got over the hump.

As they spiraled down above McCook he noticed that just about everybody on the line was looking at them. Forell, who hadn’t turned his head once, did not seem to notice the attention they were attracting. As the ship taxied to the line a considerable group of mechanics and flyers gathered to meet it, which was unusual, to say the least.

Forell did not run out his motor, but snapped the switches off without delay. He was on the ground almost as quickly as Finley himself.

“Where did you pick the shrubbery?” demanded Dick Redding, pointing at the wheels.

Finley’s eyes took in the sight. The wire wheels were stuffed with foliage from the branches that had escaped.

“Where did we get it?” repeated Forell loudly. “On a forced landing, that’s where!

“We came down in a little tiny field no bigger than a hangar, in Kentucky. When we fixed her up I took a look. Didn’t seem a chance to get out--not a chance. But I figured that we might do it by blocking the wheels and some other stuff, so I said, ‘What the ----? Either we do or we don’t!’ So I give her the gun, get the tail up, do a snake-dance down this little pasture lot with trees all around it.”

His flashing eyes met Finley’s tranquil gaze, and he stopped talking as if a hand had been clapped over his mouth. There was fear in his eyes as Finley’s held them.

“Yeah,” Finley drawled placidly. “It was a tough spot, but the Kink made it. Who’s got a cigaret?”

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the August 15, 1927 issue of Adventure magazine.]