From the Improvement Era, August 1935 –

Flying the Covered Wagon

By John Scott Douglas

Lance Freeman offered to overtake a train in an old plane referred to derisively by the mechanics as the Covered Wagon. The old crate had its weaknesses but the heart in the cockpit was strong.

Grant Rossiter, President of the Atcific Trans-Continental Lines, shook his shaggy head as he glanced at his watch.

“Just twenty minutes to catch the K. C. 8 S. F.,” he muttered. “Afraid I can’t wait for that contract to be typed.”

Tom Porter, owner of the Union Airport of Sierra Blanca, looked inquiringly at the black-haired young pilot whose fingers were racing over the typewriter keys. Clyde Hull glanced up from the contract form in the machine.

“I’ll be through in ten minutes,” he promised. “Perhaps seven.”

“Can’t wait!” Rossiter said, rising. “Have to get down to Phoenix to bid on an airport there. But all the details of sale are agreed upon; the contract needs only my signature. You can shoot it along to me tonight by air mail.”

Tom Porter arose, extending his hand. “Certainly, Mr. Rossiter. Someone can take it up to Santa Fe to catch the air- mail; or perhaps we can send it along to catch you at Los Dentados, New Mexico. One more thing. About young Freeman — .”

Mr. Rossiter shook his shaggy head, frowning. “Too young, I’m afraid. Twenty-two, did you say? I like his record, but — .”

Porter pointed to a lithe, sun-bronzed young man crossing the apron of the drome. “There he is. I’d like you to meet him, anyway.”

Mr. Rossiter picked up his pearl-grey felt, setting it carelessly on his leonine head. “Looks competent! You might do as you sug — . Use your own judgment, Porter!”

Lance Freeman entered the office at that moment, a smile on his humorous mouth. His grey eyes met Mr. Rossiter’s frankly as Porter introduced them.

“Mr. Rossiter!” Lance exclaimed eagerly. “So we’re going to be one of the stations on your cross-country route? I’m glad. Freelance pilots are few and far between these days. I hope we can serve you well.”

The old man glanced at Porter, and inclined his head just perceptibly. “I must run now.”

“I can run you down to the station,” Lance offered.

“Fine! Let’s go then.”

They got into Lance’s flivver and hurried down the hill toward Sierra Blanca. They reached the station just as the K. C. & S. F. came to a stop. Lance seized Mr. Rossister’s brief case and small satchel and carried them to the steps of the train.
“The Union will be one of a chain of airports now,” Mr. Rossiter said, as they waited for the train to start.

Lance laughed. “It will certainly help out a lot of us little fellows. Independent plane travel is scarce and uncertain.”

The train pulled out then, and Lance returned to the airport. Clyde Hull was running across the drome for a take-off when he parked his flivver beside the hangars. The young pilot turned to one of the greaseballs:

“Where’s Clyde going?”

“Taking a contract to be signed at Los Dentados,” returned the mac.

Lance nodded, thinking: “That must be the contract with the A. T. C. L. Life-saver for us, too!”

When he entered the office, a hawk-faced stranger was talking to Porter. Porter’s face was flushed.

“You mean to say your name’s Hull and that your son is Clyde Hull, one of our pilots? Why isn’t he working for your Universal Airport at Lima?”

The man with the aquiline nose laughed harshly. “Because there were things I wanted to find out, and having a man I could trust here was the best way to find them out, see? I knew the A. T. C. L. was going to lease either your airport or mine.”

“Well, they leased ours, if you want to know,” Porter grunted.

The dark stranger who called himself Hull laughed unpleasantly.

“That’s what you think! But that contract you signed and which Rossiter is going to sign reads ‘Universal’ and not ‘Union’ Airport! Get it? Rossiter is leasing my airport and not yours!”

Porter half rose from his seat and then sat down heavily.

“You — you — you — ” he sputtered, and then fell silent. “Why are you telling me this?”

Hull’s dark eyes glowed. “Because I’ve wanted to have the laugh on you for a long time, Porter! You’ve been making competition pretty stiff for me. My reputation will be made when the A. T. C. L. planes stop at the Universal.”

Porter’s eyes blazed. “We’ll fix that!” he roared. “We’ll reach Rossiter before your son can reach Los Dentados ! Telegraph the train!”

“Try it ! Do you suppose I’d be telling you this if there was a chance for you to stop the signing of the contract? The train doesn’t make a stop until it reaches Los Dentados. Except, of course, for water at the El Vejecito water tank. And try to land a plane anywhere near there! Rocks and canyons and no humans within several miles in case of a smash-up!

Porter’s eyes were bleak. “We’ll find out about that!” He called up the K. C. 8 S. F. station. “Say, is there any way to reach the train which just left by telegraph? At Los Dentados? No; before that! There isn’t? Well, I’ll send a telegram there, though it’s likely to be too late.”

He turned savagely on Hull. “And now you can get out!”

When he was gone, Lance’s strong face was anxious. “We’ll have to do something, Tom! I’ll take my plane — it’s the only one in the hangars — .”

Tom Porter laughed bitterly: “That old Gussie you fixed up? Nothing doing! It’s all right for moderate speeds when there isn’t a heavy wind. But that ‘covered wagon’ you own is nine-tenths blind spot and it would fall to pieces if you pushed it. Why you don’t burn it up — .”

“Listen!” Lance said grimly. “I know it’s an old wreck. But it’s the only crate on the field. And we have to reach Rossiter before he signs that phoney contract. I never could have believed that Clyde would have substituted the name of his father’s airport for ours.”

“Just a minute!” Porter cried, as Lance started out of the door. “Have you any cushions?”

Lance’s red brows knitted. “Cushions?”

“In case you make a hard landing!

Lance grinned, and shut the door behind him. Cushions! Porter never spoke about the plane Lance had bought and reconditioned himself without being caustic in his comments. He was the one who had dubbed it “The Covered Wagon.” His criticism was justified in that respect. The large, clumsy plane had less visibility than any plane ought to have. It had been built when one plane was about the maximum in the air in one locality at one time.

Cushions, indeed!

Lance tersely told the greaseballs to help him roll the old ship out onto the tarmac. It wobbled like a fat goose as they did so.

Lance climbed into the big cockpit, where even his large frame was nearly lost.

“Contact!” he called.

One of the mechanics grinned and swung the prop. Lance revved up the ancient plane for many minutes, and it quivered violently in every inch of brace and fabric. Finally he called to someone to kick the chocks. At that moment he heard a call from the direction of the office and turned.

Lance’s ears burned. Tom Porter was running across the field with the cushion of his swivel chair. Lance could not restrain a grin as he pushed forward on his stick to bring up the tail of the old Gussie.

It lumbered across the field and climbed precariously. Not many hundreds of miles left in the battered wreck under good conditions; and now it was going to have a test under conditions that were not at all good.

Lance felt a sagging sensation of his heart when he reflected. Clyde Hull was already far ahead of him, in a good plane. Perhaps by this time he had overtaken the train. There was not a chance in the world that he could overtake Clyde Hull. But there was a faint possibility he could reach Los Dentados before the train.

The brown, serrated New Mexican highlands flattened under the old plane as Lance climbed into the cobalt sky. He gave the Gussie all the gun it would take when he at last leveled off.

To his left, he could see, by craning his neck, the steel gash of the K. C. 8 S. F. Railroad. Aside from the right-of-way of the tracks, there seemed not another level thing in the country. It was wild country, rearing painted heads of stone and earth in mesa and butte, falling away into sloping valleys and dry arroyos.

But to give credit where it is due, the old Gussie was streaming territory under its wings with amazing celerity.

“Cushions, my eye!” grunted Lance. “I wish Tom could see us now!”

Hardly had he, spoken when the right wing began to creak and whistle. Lance’s heart stood still as he expected the wing to fray. A piece of fabric flapped in the breeze.

Lance’s hard young jaw stiffened. “I have to reach Rossiter before he signs that contract,” he reflected. “But if this plane holds together for another ten minutes, it’ll be funny!”

He could decrease his speed, of course. But then he wouldn’t reach Los Dentados when the train did. Or he could maintain the top speed of the old Gussie and trust to luck. Which he did.

Presently the wings began to flap like those of a pelican. The left wing sang a swan-song of disaster and the right wing was fraying more with every passing moment. It was only a question of minutes until his support would be removed to the point where a sharp dive in an adverse wind current would mean a buckling of the wings.

There was nothing to do but land — if he could find a place where a landing would be safe. But a landing would also mean he would reach Los Dentados too late. He had not even seen the train yet.

Lance finally saw the spot — the broad stream of a dry arroyo with banks not high enough to shear off his wings. If he was lucky, he might land the Gussie without crumpling up its frail landing gear.

He side-slipped to port and then to starboard, cutting down both altitude and momentum. And then he fish-tailed and pancaked the plane down into the stream bed.

Lance jumped out to see if there was anything he could do. There was. Several rigging wires had snapped due to the speed at which he had been flying. Fabric was torn as though it had been gashed by hailstones.

He quickly set to work repairing the damage. He had spare canvas and wire in his turtleback against just such emergencies. Fifteen minutes later he had roughly patched the holes with wire and canvas and replaced the broken rigging wires. But some of the braces were rather loose, and for these he could do nothing.

Taxiing down the level bed of the arroyo, he lifted the clumsy ship just before reaching a drop in the bed. He spiraled above the rough terrain and was presently buzzing west again.

For a long time, he sped westward. He followed the curving span of the railroad. Far ahead he presently espied a white puff of smoke and a black, snake-like chain of cars. Mr. Rossiter’s train!

He might reach Los Dentados before it did!

For a long time Lance banged along in the noisy old Gussie. Faster and faster! Even with the train at last; then gaining on it. He pressed his advantage, smiling grimly to himself. . Let Tom Porter laugh at the old crate, if he wanted! There were still miles in the “covered wagon.”

Then the wings began to flap again like some loosely-rigged flying reptile. One brace was rattling; wires were twanging with the strain. One broke with a thin, high-pitched wail. Fabric was creaking in new places.

Perspiration broke out on Lance’s bronzed forehead. It was hopeless to continue much farther at this speed. But he had to overtake Mr. Rossiter! What was he going to do? If he quit now, Mr. Rossiter would sign the contract and their airport would lose the business. And every cent he had in the world was invested in Union Airport, as well as Tom Porter’s. But if he continued, sooner or later the old Gussie would leave him suspended on a cloud, as the saying went. In his haste, he had forgotten to bring a parachute. He thought with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach how Tom had come out with that cushion. A joke then — but it was likely to be a tragedy before long.

Torn between two desires, Lance pushed along, watching the straining plane with anxious grey eyes. Another wire twanged as it broke. The wings were flopping loosely. He reared up a bit and looked down. Crags — undulating land cris-crossed with arroyos — boulders strewn here and there.

Hopeless to land! Yet still more hopeless unless he got the old Gussie down before it fell apart!

He cut down his speed, deliberating. He heard the distant shriek of the train’s whistle. It was gaining on him again. What luck!

Lance’s heart gave a sudden jog as an idea flashed into his mind. The Circle-H ranch — why hadn’t he thought of it before? One of the biggest ranches in the country. They used an autogiro as well as cowboys to keep in touch with straying bands of cattle. Young Haldeford flew the “swirl plane,” and had let Lance make some trial flights in it at one time. Now if he could only find Spud Haldeford, all might yet be well.

But as Lance flew northward toward the Circle-H ranch, his exuberance dwindled. The ranch was miles off the right of way of the railroad. Five miles, at least! And there was the additional possibility that Young Haldeford was on one of his cattle-buying trips which might be in any one of the points of the compass.

The old Gussie was groaning and creaking and sighing, like an old horse whose day is nearly done. From time to time, Lance glanced downward, trying to pick out a landing spot should a sudden landing prove necessary. He concluded that one place would be as bad as another.

Presently, however, the ground became less broken, and grazing cattle could be seen in groups here and there. And finally the ranchhouse, sprawling in a valley, appeared over a rise in ground. Lance’s heart gave a sudden lurch. Beside the house, the autogiro was preparing for a take-off ! The rotor blades were spinning above the open cockpit !

Lance fed the old ship all the gun it would take, and went roaring down the few remaining hundreds of feet. The pilot must have heard the Gussie, even above the roaring of the spinning rotor blades, for he glanced up and waited.

Lance set the dilapidated plane down. One wing had nearly come loose. The old ship would never fly again.

Lance ran toward Young Haldeford and panted: “Thought that old mill would never reach here, Spud ! Trying to get in touch with Mr. Rossiter before he signs a contract in Los Dentados. Awfully important or I wouldn’t have bothered you! But I wonder if you’d be good enough — .”

Spud eased his big bulk out of the cockpit of the autogiro.

“Run along — and explain later. You don’t need to explain how important it is! I know if you’d come this far in that rattle-trap, you’re not on a pleasure trip. Take my ship and travel!”

Lance flashed Spud Haldeford a look of gratitude, and leaped into the cockpit of the “swirl ship.” He raced it across the ground, and was able to take off in fifty feet.

He was in a good ship now; but he was far behind the train. And the autogiro he was flying was the 125 horse power Kinner, with a cruising speed of only eighty miles an hour when throttled down to 250 revolutions per minute. A snail’s pace — but of course he could tease more speed than that out of the plane.

Mentally Lance visualized the train’s route. It curved slightly north near the Eagle Butte ranch. By cutting across country, he could save mileage and have more hope of overtaking it. More hope — but not much! Before reaching Los Dentados, there was a stop of a few minutes at the watering tank of El Vejecito. But the country around El Vejecito was rough. Its name had come from a rocky formation there — the little old man of the rock. Outthrust slivers and rough ground!

Grazing cattle flashed under his wings as Lance raced along in the Haldeford’s “swirl ship.” He had almost forgotten the big, swirling blades which were bowed up on their suspension cables. The snake-like thread of cars appeared behind a butte to the southwest, and smoke streamed from the engine.

Lance increased the speed of the autogiro. It responded with a burst of power. The chain of cars grew larger and larger and then passed out of sight to the northeast. Lance did not attempt to follow.

Before long, it would turn slightly south of east again. He cut across a mountainous stretch — a wilderness of gigantic stones which seemed to stretch to the purpled mountains ahead. This appearance was deceptive, however, for it presently gave way to the undulating barrens of sagebrush and desert. And when Lance saw the train again, he was almost parallel to it. And gaining!

It was now evident that in his better plane, he might reach Los Dentados before Mr. Rossiter did. But another plan formed in his mind. Clyde Hull must by now be in town, impatiently awaiting the train. Why not board it first?

Of course there were no towns between there and Los Dentados. But there was the stop for water — El Vejecito! An impossible place to land another plane; but Spud Haldeford had bought the autogiro because of its ability to land and take-off in a minimum of space.

The bed rocks of El Vejecito appeared ahead, and Lance decided to take a chance. The bleat of the train warned him he must act quickly or not at all. He sliced down in a slow dive and saw the watering tank. But he was unable to see any flat ground near it.

“I wouldn’t want to land a wheel-barrow here!” Lance said ruefully. “The tracks! Hmmmm! I wonder.”

It was a narrow space in which to land; but narrow landings were this particular plane’s specialty. Lance cut down his speed; the autogiro hovered and then settled gently. He had heard of landing these planes at a zero angle but he wasn’t anxious to experiment over a railroad track. Another shriek of the train whistle warned him he must hurry.

Lance forced the nose down in a gentle glide, and struck the tracks He bounced and managed to land between the tracks the next time. He was out almost as soon as the autogiro stopped rolling.

There were some boards near the water tank, and Lance built a hasty runway. He got the plane safely off the track near the water tank and the boards back where they belonged when the train thrust its black snout around a bend.

As it chugged to a stop, Lance knocked at one of the windows, and a porter opened the door. He ran through the cars and in the third one found Mr. Rossiter, who glanced up in surprise and then smiled.

“I bring you some rather unpleasant news,” he explained in low tones. “I’m glad I was able to reach you before you signed that contract.”

“What do you mean, Freeman?”

Lance went on to explain; and the old man nodded somberly, but there seemed to be a twinkle in his eyes.

“How’d you ever reach here in time to catch the train? I thought there was no other plane at your airport?”

Lance smiled ruefully. “There wasn’t, sir!” And he explained how he had come in the old Gussie, until it had refused to go farther.

Mr. Rossiter nodded thoughtfully. Fifteen minutes later, the train pulled into Los Dentados. Clyde Hull was standing on the platform, and he ran forward when he saw Mr. Rossiter. His eyes widened when he saw a grim-faced Lance Freeman step off behind the aviation man. Then a question formed in his eyes.

Mr. Rossiter laughed. “You have the contracts, Hull?”

“Yes, sir.” He handed them to the old man.

Rossiter scratched his name on both, after glancing at them briefly. Lance started. After his warning!

“But, sir — .”

Mr. Rossiter smiled. “Read them over, Freeman.”

Lance did so. “Why, this contract reads that you are leasing both the Universal and Union Airports!”

Mr. Rossiter looked at Clyde Hull, and then they both laughed. Lance turned red.

“I’m beginning to see,” he blurted. “Then this is all a joke! Tom Porter knew it and Clyde knew it and—.”

Mr. Rossiter sobered. He gripped Lance’s shoulder.

“You’re not entirely right, young fellow,” he said gently. “It’s not all a joke! My company is leasing both the Universal and Union Airports — true. Mr. Hull came over from Lima to sign this contract. You know — or perhaps you don’t know — that Tom Porter bought the Universal Airport for his boss several weeks ago. Your boss and Hull are partners now — that’s why Hull had to sign. At least it was advisable.”

Lance looked puzzled. “Yes; but what had that to do with me?”

Mr. Rossiter smiled. “I asked Tom if he had any young fellow in his organization whom I might train for an executive position in my company. He recommended you; but said you were only 22. Seemed a bit young to me. But he said he’d give, you a test which would prove to my satisfaction that you had both ingenuity and integrity — that you were able to think clearly in emergencies. That you had the perseverance necessary to fit yourself for an executive position in my concern ! And I must say, Freeman, that you’ve passed the test with flying colors! Will you forgive me for putting you to all this trouble?”

“Forgive you!” An unsteady smile trembled on Lance’s humorous mouth as he reached eagerly for Mr. Rossiter’s out-stretched hand.