Earmarked Gold

or mercy in his heart as the plane struck the water, shooting a geyser high into the air.

As he straightened out, he heard Red's swivel gun chattering behind him. He scanned the air for Shorty and found him two thousand feet overhead, maneuvering to keep out of range of the one-and-a-half-inch shells from the bomber.

The four surviving red-and-black fighters had leveled off three thousand feet above Shorty and were preparing to attack. Bill watched the flippers of one of them as he instructed the others. He knew that before they tried to survive that attack he must silence the one-pounder in the circular turret in the top of the BT-4.

He cursed Slip Ogden again as he stuck the nose of his Lancer down. He had ever made a complete sucker of him, was some place aboard the bomber. And he knew that he must half wreck his own ship to prevent Ogden from taking it off the water. He could see men casting the lines away as he nosed down with his finger curled around his gun trips.

His tracers wove their pattern above the BT-4 and he eased his stick forward a little more. Machine-gun bullets pounded up through the wings and fuselage of his Lancer. But he held his guns straight on the tail—wide open. He saw the man in the after gun cockpit crumple up and collapse. Then his bullets tore into the bridge and the revolving gun turret above it. He saw Slip Ogden crumple over the one-pounder and he felt a tremendous surge of exultation.

He knew now that nothing could stop him as those four red-and-black fighters pounced on him from above. For a moment he took a terrific concentration of their fire. Then he hung his Lancer on its props and took it upstairs.

He saw Shorty slash across the rear of one of the diving ships and pump his bullets into the pilot. He saw the pilot jerk upward out of his seat and then fall back as his ship zoomed straight up and over on its back.

Then he was back in the fight with the fierce joy of fighting an enemy who should be destroyed. He saw the terror-stricken faces of the passengers of the Bitsi Maru as he brought the Lancer around on one wing tip and poured bullets into a red-and-black fighter that was going away. But he wasn't going away fast enough. Bill's stream of lead literally tore the pilot's head from his shoulders and the ship plummeted toward the sea.

There were only two of the biplanes left now. But they did not peel off and run as Bill had expected them to. They came storming in on Shorty to get him in a cross fire.

Shorty rolled his Snorter out of range as Bill got the first one under the sights of his cannon. He fired a burst of five explosive shells that detonated on the red-and-black fighter's engine housing. The ship became a ball of black smoke, streaked with orange flame, as it plunged out of the fight.

At the same instant Shorty came up underneath the sixth and last one to pour death into its vitals. The nose dropped and it joined its brothers in the Pacific as the passengers and crew of the Bitsi Maru screamed their joy to the heavens.

BILL BARNES, Red Gleason, Shorty Hassfurther and the irrepressible Sandy sat in the captain's suite of the Bitsi Maru an hour later. They had checked the bomber and found that they could fly it back to Alaska for repairs.

“That,” the captain of the Bitsi Maru said, flashing his white, even teeth, “was a most beautiful bit of flying.”

“It had to be,” Bill said. “But what does it get me? Both my ships and my men are wrecks. They're scattered all over the Aleutian Islands and Alaska. It will cost me a small fortune to fix' up the BT-4, the Lancer, and Sandy's Eaglet—to say nothing of my head.”

“Your head didn't hurt as much as your ego. Bill,” the grinning Sandy said. “You were afraid you were going to be taken for a sucker.”

“Well,” Bill snapped, “wasn't I?”

“Until the end—when it counted,” the captain said. “My owners will be only too glad to more than recompense you for your time and the damage to your planes.”

“That,” Bill said, “will help. But don't think we came out on the long end because of my efforts.” His eyes swept the faces of his men with an expression of pride. “I would have been a prime sucker if my men hadn't been behind me every minute. Shorty and Sandy pulled the fat out of the fire.” He got to his feet and his eyes were shining. “Now we can get back to our work and forget this thing.”

“Say, Bill,” Sandy said, his freckled face spotted with grime and smoke from his machine gun, “I haven't had a chance to tell you I've got to lay over a few days in Alaska. I got something to do up there.”

“You've what?” Bill said, looking at him suspiciously.

“I met a couple of Eskimos at Flat,” Sandy said. “They're going to take me up in the northeast, shooting.”

“Shooting what?” Bill growled.

“Reindeers from the air,” Sandy said.

“You better look out or your pal, Santa Claus, will give you hell!” Shorty Hassfurther said—when he could stop laughing.

Air Trails — March 1938