"You know the lay of the land. I want your help. Go out to Field Three; there'll be a man there waiting for you. Don't call him 'Colonel'--he's also strictly unofficial to-day. The sheriff and his posse will be there at Seven Palms inside an hour; I want you to be there, too, about five thousand feet up. "Tell Colonel Culver--I mean Mr. Culver--your story; tell him everything you know. He'll be in charge of operations if we have to send in troops; he'll give you that private and unofficial backing I spoke of if we don't. "Now get down there; keep your eye on the sheriff's crowd and see everything that happens!" But Smithy's parting remark was to his father; it was a continuation of the subject they had been discussing before. "You can buy at your own price," he said. "They've got rights to the whole basin. But they've quit; I'm not treating them to a double-cross." And he added as he went out of the room: "Buy it for me if you don't want it yourself." * * * * * It was a two-place, open-cockpit plane that Smithy found had been set aside for him. Dual control--the stick in the forward cockpit carried the firing grip that controlled the slim blue machine guns firing through the propeller. Behind the rear cockpit a strange, unwieldy, double-ended weapon was recessed and streamlined into the fuselage. The scout seemed quite able to protect itself in an emergency. Beside the plane a tall, slender man in civilian attire was waiting. He stuck out his hand, while the gray eyes in his lean, tanned face scanned Smithy swiftly. "I'm Culver. Understand I'm to be your passenger to-day. How about it--can you fly the ship? Seven hundred and fifty DeGrosse motor--retractable landing gear, of course. She hits four-fifty at top speed--snappy--quick on the trigger." Smithy shook his head dubiously. "Four-fifty--I'm not accustomed to that. But you can take the stick, Mr. Culver, if I get in a hurry and jump out and run on ahead. You see I'm used to my own ship, an _Assegai_--special job--does five hundred when I'm pressed for time." The lean face of Mr. Culver creased into a smile. "You qualify," he said. "But keep your hands off the dead mule." At an inquiring glance he pointed to the heavy, half-hidden weapon that Smithy had noticed. "Can't kick," he explained, "--hence 'dead mule.' It's the new Rickert recoilless; throws little shells the size of your thumb--but they raise hell when they hit." "Sounds interesting." Smithy climbed into the rear cockpit and strapped himself in. "Show me how it works, then I won't do it." * * * * *