Major Harding, in the first ship, studied the lay of the land and, with an upraised arm, signaled to the other planes to turn the noses of their ships toward the earth, flying low and prepared to open fire at his command to do so. The observers leveled their machine guns, loaded the magazines and took careful aim as the squadron of ships swooped down over the corral like a great drove of locusts. The commander of the flying fleet again raised his arm as a signal to begin firing, and the muzzles of every water-cooled Browning opened up and spit deadly fire into the broken ranks of the terror-stricken bandit troops, causing untold casualties. From the peak of his mountain lookout, Sandino watched the attack from the air upon his disorganized army and his men retreating in a disorderly fashion, scattering in all directions. A grave, panicky expression darkened his face. He turned about and ran to his horse, mounting the animal, prepared to ride off to some protective covering as a wounded officer from his own ranks ran toward him. The rebel usurper looked back at the man whose face was distorted with terror and pain. He drew up his horse and, in his native tongue, ordered the officer to return to the scene of battle. Unheeding, the fleeing soldier continued to run away from the certain death below, truly obsessed with an idea that was not unlike the one borne by his own commander. Sandino lifted his hand and whipped out a blue-steel automatic pistol, leveled it and fired, uttering a blasphemous oath at the officer as he fell forward. In a moment, the ambitious, would-be dictator of Nicaragua was riding swiftly away to peace and protection from war in the air. As a final gesture, Major Harding signaled to his followers in the other planes to drop the bombs, making certain that the extermination of the retreating bandits would be complete. The huge messengers of hate were released by the pilots and they went crashing earthward, distributing immediate death and misery. Steve pushed the stick forward and dove his plane nearer to earth, breaking formation from the other ships that were now gaining altitude. Just ahead, crossing a swamp, was a small band of Sandinisto survivors. Lefty caught the pilot’s objective in leaving the formation of planes and with a peculiar cold, subdued calm, opened fire upon the helpless, retreating rebels, wreaking death and havoc. One of the retreating bandit officers turned about, picked up a gun left behind on the ground and leveled the butt of it to his shoulder, taking careful aim and firing. Just then, Steve swooped down to a position that was only a few feet from the ground, leaving himself a perfect target for the final gesture from the retreating bandit leader. [Illustration: They left themselves perfect targets for the final gesture from the retreating bandits.] The muscles of his face contracted with pain. He let his hand fall from the stick and his whole body slumped forward in the cockpit.