“Horse-thieves—there—kidnapped young lady—my sweetheart—wanted make her marry man—I got her back—they want lynch me,” panted the man, as he vaulted from his horse. He helped down the girl and lifted her on the freight-platform of the _Hustle_. He was a clean, decent-looking chap, Hike thought, and the story was probably true, with those wild bandits chasing the couple. Hike switched on the spark—but the engine did not start. Through the rain the pursuers could be seen, galloping toward them. A rifle bullet sang through the _Hustle’s_ planes. “What’s matter?” Poodle yelled again. Hike shouted, “Dunno—won’t start. Climb out—we’ll _glide_ across river!” They pushed the machine to the down slope of the butte, toward the river, and swung back into their seats. Down the slope she ran, rose a little, and glided out into the air, over the river. But their start had been bad. The ground had been wet, their shove short. The _Hustle_ was settling down, threatening to drop into the river. They had to rise, to get over the hilly bank on the other side. Thinking it all out, in a second, while they were soaring, Hike decided to lighten their load. “Deflect elevating plane when get over!” he howled to Poodle, and then leaped from his seat, out into the air, and dropped down into the river. He was badly shaken up, but he crawled out on the farther bank, and rushed up the hilly river-edge. He saw the _Hustle_ sail across the river, just grazing the hill, and then disappear beyond the hill, safe. On the side of the river from which they had just come, the pursuing men had already ridden up to the top of the butte. Hike hastened to the safely stopped machine and, diving down beside her engine, tried the spark. Poodle climbed out and stood on guard, with his revolver ready. “Gwan up the hill. See they don’t ford river,” said Hike, and Poodle, his plump legs going like bicycle-wheel spokes, dashed up to the rise overlooking the water. In the rain that pelted the river till its surface looked like little hills and valleys, and soaked him to the skin, Poodle lay on his stomach atop the hill, and watched the pursuers stop, take council, then ride down to the water and put their frightened horses at the rushing river. He didn’t want to shoot—he didn’t want to take a chance of killing any one, reflected soft-hearted young Poodle. But he looked back at the frightened young man and woman who, from their seats in the _Hustle_, were watching Hike work over the engine, seeming even more frightened by the fight than interested in their first aeroplane. Then he looked back at the pursuers, grimly; took aim at the big black-bearded man who led the bunch, and shouted down, “Halt!”