Читать книгу Mark Gilmore, Speed Flyer - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 6

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A sort of armistice prevailed during their journey southward. Benson betook himself to the further end of the cabin and went to sleep while Arty kept Mark company in the cockpit, beguiling him with various anecdotes concerning Dawson City’s present activities.

Mark learned much of the bustling little Colorado city in those few hours. From the gist of Arty’s talk he realized that his prospective position under the senior Aylesworth was going to have its difficulties. It seemed that he was not only expected to better his own previous flying record, but to better that of his rival, the Dawson-Inland ship, which made a nightly trip from Dawson City to Phoenix, Arizona. For a month at least, his job would hang on his success in making that goal, pre-schedule if possible, and on schedule without fail.

“Why?” Mark asked curiously.

“Because of Rumson,” answered Arty. “We have a postmaster that’s easily influenced the wrong way and Rumson’s trying to work his points so’s he can get the job. He’ll bid lower than dad—they’re the only two bidding.”

“Then why don’t your father underbid Rumson if he knows all this?”

“He can’t afford to lose money, much as he’d like the contract. That’s just what he’d do if he’d bid as low as Rumson. Can’t you see, Red? Rumson wants the job even at a loss—why? You may be certain he’s banking on winning something out of it sometime or he wouldn’t want it.”

“Then if it’s a foregone conclusion that Rumson will underbid your father and get the contract, why all this excitement about me making pre-schedule time to Phoenix for a month?”

“It isn’t a foregone conclusion that Rumson will get the contract even if he does underbid dad. You see integrity counts for something too and also good service (two items that Rumson couldn’t swear honestly to give in his contract), and the postmaster knows that all Dawson City is for dad. If we keep on giving good service to Phoenix nightly, for another month till the bids come up, we’ll get the contract and I don’t mean maybe. That’s why dad’s been so set on getting a good pilot for the Phoenix run—see? And we’ve got you!”

Mark grinned. “Hope I live up to expectations, Art. I’ll certainly do my best. What’s the matter with the present pilot?”

“Our day man on the Des Moines run has been doubling on that, but he’s been complaining that the night run to Phoenix is too much, and it is. He gets tired, naturally, and he’s been having a couple of bad spills lately. Lost some freight and things like that, that don’t help us with the postmaster. So you see why we have to have a good man. The coming month counts a lot, for with a good record and no casualties we’ll have the upper hand even if Rumson does underbid.”

“Gosh, I understand, Art. But how about Rumson’s men and his ships?”

“Nothing to brag about. The crates are almost antiquated and the men just half and half. His Phoenix run man he lost about a month back. Poor chap got caught in one of those early fall snow squalls above the mountains and he was forced down in one of the canyons. Searched for two weeks and finally found the charred wreckage. Bodies burned to nothing—in fact, they had burned so there was no trace of them. Lucky there wasn’t any more than two passengers on board that night.”

Mark shivered slightly, he did not know why. He had no especial fear and he had heard innumerable stories such as this one. Many of his comrades had met an identical fate and after a wistful thought of their good qualities he had let them take their place in memory. That was the way of the airman. It admitted too much of defeat to let oneself become sentimental over the tragedies of one’s comrades. A good airman thought only of forging ahead and by dint of constant application to his calling became triumphant over that all-powerful enemy, the air. In that way only could he defeat the grasping hand of death.

“I take it then that Richie will be Rumson’s man on the Phoenix run, huh?” he asked at length.

“Righto, and you’ll be ours,” Arty said brightly. “And I’ll stake my life on it that I’ve picked a winner.”

“Don’t be too sure,” Mark laughed. “The best often fail.”

“Seldom,” Arty returned vehemently. “Maybe the kind of best that Benson is, but not you.”

“Oh, Richie’s not a bad airman. He’d be A-1 if he’d use his head in a tight place. But like tonight he just lets things slide out from under him. That crate of his wouldn’t be floating down the river now if he’d taken time to think of a way out.”

“Well, from now on you should worry about Benson, Red. Believe me, you’ll have enough to do worrying about yourself if you’re going to make pre-schedule trips to Phoenix this time of year. That run isn’t any pink tea with the snows already started and the wind whooping things up, but you could handle a run over the Gobi desert, that’s the faith I have in you! Now take our other runs—any half-baked pilot could handle them. The one to Helena and the other to Carson City, they’re child’s play, but you got a man’s job, a....”

Mark half heard Arty’s chatter, then did not hear at all, for he was lost in his own thoughts and wondering just how much risk the job involved. Was it worth his neck to bring success to either of these rival airlines? Hardly. Yet even as he pondered this his mind came back to the question of Richie Benson. There was his responsibility, his risk, and regardless of any business intrigue, he realized that it was worth his life even, to keep Richie out of the grasp of a man like Rumson.

And as a balmy Texas wind blew in the cockpit window and a starlit southern sky shone overhead, Mark visualized a day some fifteen years back. He had been but a little fellow then, ever so little, but old enough to realize that it was Richie’s mother who lent a helping hand to the then destitute Gilmore family.

Vividly he recalled his father, bankrupt and sick, and his little family on the brink of starvation. Mrs. Benson and her husband had kept them all from stark disaster and given them a new start with their kindly aid. From that day they had gradually prospered until now Mr. Gilmore had a comfortable income and a comfortable home, while Mrs. Benson, widowed and poor, had nothing but a rash, impetuous son—an uncertainty.

Yes, at any cost, he must stay for Richie.