tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">“We’ll Have to Go It Alone,” Said Mary

A Formation of Four-Motored Planes Passed Over

CHAPTER I
 
THE FLIGHT OF THE LONE STAR

The air above the Brazilian jungles along the dark waters of the Rio Branco in northern Brazil was full of sound. The roar and thunder of many motors beat down upon the sea of waving treetops until it seemed to stir them into animated life. A formation of great, four-motored planes was passing over.

Two natives in a small dugout on the river dropped their paddles into their wooden canoe, then sat staring upward. The river’s current swept them beneath the branches of a dead mango tree. One of them reached up to snap off a brittle branch.

Breaking pieces from this branch he placed them, one by one, in the bottom of the canoe. When there were thirty-eight pieces, he stopped to sit as if in a trance watching those great, man-made birds go sweeping on.

Presently his companion grunted, then pointed at the sky upstream. The first native again looked skyward, then placed two more sticks with the others, making forty in all. Then he drawled a few native words that in our language mean:

“One of these big birds is very sick.”

This native was old. He had lived long beneath the overhanging treetops. He knew the ways of birds and men, but not of airplanes. For all that, he was right. One of these flying things of metal was sick, very sick.

Even as he said the words, there came a sudden burst of thunder, and the larger of the two planes, the one that was not “sick,” a ship so well formed—sleek and beautiful—that a native’s eyes shone at sight of it, pulled away from its slow, sick companion and went speeding along over the forest that lined the downsweep of the river.

“Gone,” said the native. “Now this one will die.” His eyes shone with a new light. Once on the Rio Negro, he had seen one of these man-made birds. There had been much on that plane that he had coveted. And now—

These last two planes were not bombers, but transport planes. It was quite evident that the speeding plane had not deserted its companion, for, in a short time, it came roaring back and a girl’s voice speaking into a radio said:

“There’s a rather large clearing about fifty miles down. Think you can make it?”

“We’ll have to try,” came in a man’s strong, even tone. “We’re on one motor now. The other is cutting out on me. Can’t tell how soon it will quit dead.”

“We’ll tag along,” came in the girl’s voice. “If you make it—”

“If we get that far, we’ll try a landing,” was the answer.

“And if anything goes wrong—”

“You’ll fly right on.” The man’s voice was harsh, insistent. “Remember! Secret—”

“Don’t say it, Sparky!” The girl’s voice rose sharp as an alarmed bird’s. “Don’t say