Again he paid no attention to the challenge of the guards as he pounded on the door of Kestrel's rooms. When the door flew open to expose the haggard face of the wing commander, Sandy half-staggered, half fell into the room.
“Where—where,” he grasped, “is Shorty?”
“Searching for Barnes,” Kestrel snapped. “How did you get here? Where is Barnes? We've scoured the countryside looking for you. I called my men in at dusk, but Hassfurther is still out. He thinks you must have crashed in the mountains around Petra.”
“I've got to get Shorty on the radio from my Snorter,” Sandy said. “'We were attacked by the stolen Royal Air Force planes. We shot four of them down, then ran out of fuel. The two that escaped came back to get us, but we drove them off.
“ After dark we were attacked by desert tribesmen. We held them off and I captured a horse and rode to Ma'-an. Bill is still out there. I've got to find Shorty. I—-” Sandy stopped, gasping.
“I'll order: a squadron of my men out immediately,” Kestrel snapped. “Was there any danger of another attack on Barnes?”
“He's probably dead now,” Sandy said. “I don't see why you couldn't find us. We were down only about twenty miles from Ma'an.”
“We went northwest, over the Syrian Desert,” Kestrel said, “That was the direction where you were last seen. We didn't worry about you until nearly sun down. Hassfurther thought he ought to stay here until he knew about Gleason.”
“What about Gleason?” Sandy barked.
“He's all right,” Kestrel answered. “He'll pull through in no time. He has a constitution like a horse.”
“ An Arab horse,” Sandy said, and bounded to his feet. “Bill doesn't want you to send your men out. Shorty and I can get him. We'll take him fuel. Your men are apt to crack up their ships trying to sit down on the irregular sand hillocks.”
“Nonsense!” Kestrel barked.
“If you want to do anything,” Sandy said as he started toward the door, “take care of my horse!”
Three minutes later he made contact with Shorty by radiophone.
“Listen, Shorty,” he said; “Bill is down about twenty miles from Ma'an. He was surrounded by desert Bedouins, armed to the teeth, when I captured a horse and managed to get to Ma'an.”
“What's his position?” Shorty snapped.
Sandy gave it to him.
“All right kid, I'm going there now. You load some fuel into your Snorter and follow me. You say he'll have his landing lights showing?”
“That's right, Shorty. Be careful going in. Drop a flare. It's a tough place to land. You'd better go in a little away from him, because there are dead horses and men all around the Lancer.”
“Right, kid. Hurry! I'm signing off.”
With the help of a dozen grease monkeys, Sandy loaded enough fuel into the rear cockpit or his Snorter to bring the Lancer back.
He whipped the Snorter into the air with a characteristic touch and stuck the nose almost due west. He picked up the landing lights of Bill's Lancer and Shorty's Stormer within a few minutes.
His heart was pounding so hard that he could hardly breathe as he dropped a flare and set his Snorter down within fifty feet of Shorty's. He was half afraid to climb over the side of the Snorter. Afraid of what he might find. He knew that only a miracle could have saved Bill from that band of fanatics surrounding him.
Yet his absolute faith in Bill told him that Bill was alive—that he had managed in some manner to survive the rifles and daggers of the fierce tribesmen.
He dropped over the side of the Snorter and started running through the desert sand. When he was halfway to the Lancer he came across the bodies of a dozen dead Bedouins. They were piled on the rim of a hillock where Bill's bullets had found them as they came over the top. When he could restrain himself no longer he shouted Shorty's name. Then again, and again.
His blood seemed to freeze in his body as no answering call came back to him—only the faint sighing of the desert winds and the swish of the sand beneath his feet.
He drew his automatic from an overall pocket and slowed his pace. Had they got Shorty, too? Were they waiting for him? Cold chills crept up his spine and seemed to fasten around his heart.
Then the sound of faint voices came to his ears. He stopped and stood motionless. The voices came again, higher, clearer.
He recognized the voice of Bill Barnes. He shouted again. And this time Bill's voice came back to him. Sandy covered that remaining space to the Lancer with pounding feet and heart. He swung up on a step of the Lancer and pulled himself up.
Shorty was bending over Bill, applying antiseptics to a half dozen minor wounds. Sandy's face blazed with anger as Shorty and Bill gazed up at him with the bland expressions of men who are used to such things.
“My gosh!” Sandy said. “Why didn't you answer me? I thought you were both dead! I was expecting to have my throat cut any minute.”
“Tom Mix himself.” Shorty chuckled. “Where's your horse, cowboy?”
Bill laughed. “We heard you and thought that you'd get over here all right,” he said. “We didn't hear you shout.”
“You're all right, Bill?”
“Just a few dagger scratches,” Bill said. “They tried to get me again, and almost succeeded. I cracked a few heads and threw a tear bomb at them. It took the fight out of 'em. They went streaming back across the desert— what was left of 'em—to the place they came from.”
IX-A BIG PROBLEM
BILL BARNES could hardly hold his eyes open as he sat in Kestrel's quarters a half hour later.
“Gleason's all right, you say?” he asked.
“Quite,” Kestrel answered. “McCardell says he has a splendid constitution. He'll be as good as new in no time.”
“It's too bad I ran out of fuel,” Bill said bitterly. “I could have picked up the man who bailed out of his ship and brought him back here. We might have made him talk. I'm sorry I had to shoot down four of your stolen ships, Kestrel. But that leaves your enemy with only four. He can't get very far with them.”
“You're wrong, Barnes,” Kestrel said wearily. “Ten more of our ships were stolen from under our noses today. It must have been part of that group that attacked you.”
Bill stared at Kestrel incredulously.
“Ten more!” Bill gasped. “How could they do it? Who flew them?”
“Let me explain,” Kestrel said, mopping his face with a shaking hand. “I understand now why Douglas was framed and then murdered. And why the attack was made on you. Douglas was one of the three flight commanders in the squadron whose planes have disappeared. The other two were named MacTavish and Sneed. They are the two scoundrels who have been working for the enemy inside our lines. They disappeared along with the captain appointed in Douglas' place to-day.”
Bill Barnes got to his feet and paced across the room. When he whirled, he addressed Shorty Hassfurther. “Do you get the set-up?” he asked. .
Shorty stared at him for a moment, then slowly shook his head. “It's coming to me,” he said.
“MacTavish and Sneed tried to get Douglas to work with them,” Kestrel went on. “He wouldn't listen to them. So they framed him as a common thief so he would be cashiered and out of the way, and another man put in his place who would work with them. They slipped in a bunch of renegade fliers; there are plenty of them out here in the East. They did it right under our very noses. They dressed them in British uniforms and waited for the right time to strike. Our enlisted mechanics took their orders from MacTavish and Sneed. They didn't know there was anything amiss until it was too late.
“Douglas must have found out something. That's why he stayed around here. They learned that he was getting on the right track. And—”
“They murdered him!” Shorty said bitterly.
