The Waterbury Democrat. [volume] (Waterbury, Conn.) 1917-1946, 1935-07-01


over the golden rocks. She thought
of mounds Of sherbet, pale green,
lemon yellow served at dinner par
ties. She thought, of ice, tinkling
in tall glass
Your head whirled, dwelling on
these things. Better to think of
something else.
She sang songs, lightly, until her
cracked throat rebelled. She was
deadly tired now but still she Stun
bled on, the harsh sand drifting
above the tops of her jodphur
boots. Once she tore at the top
button of her pongee shirt and re-
leased it as if better to breathe.
Frank Willard would find her; or
Dirk. They both knew this coun-
try like a book. They would laugh
at this adventure later on. Or
would they? She remembered read
ing the story of a man and woman
lost in the desert. They had been
middle-age lovers. The man had
left his heart medicine at home SO
as not to appear handicapped to
his bride; the woman had not worn
her spectacles for the same reason.
And so both had persisted, one be-
cause of his seizure, the other be-
cause she could not see to lead
them out of their trouble.
All, but Katharine was young
and strong! She shuddered, re-
membering the story. That could
not happen to her. Death was
something far away and unreal,
not to be faced just now.
She saw q fara-away speck in
the sky and whirled, her heart in
her mouth, thinking 1t might be a
plane and that she might signal it..
But it was only a great bird-there
were other birds in its wake
wheeling and circling. Buzzards!
Horror-horror! 1t tore at her
throat. The sense of it, closing in
on her, made her shivver as with
ague.
Five minutes-had it only been
five minutes since she glanced at
her watch dial last? 1t seemed
hours-years!
A sagebrush root tore at her an
kle. She stumbled. Fell. Rising
again, she realized that she had
hurt her ankle cruelty. Not a
sprain, perhaps, but nearly so. She
stumbled on
There was no pity in the aching
sky, no living thing in all the
world to pity her. Only the burning
and heat and silence and far-off,
the birds wheeling and swooping.
There were no planes to be had
nearer than Claymore, Hilda Hill
lard told Michael lifelessly. Fifty
miles back, the way they had come.
Even then it was not certain. 1t
was an emergency landing field.
Twill you come with me, so that
I shan't lose the way?' Michael de-
manded.
Evelyn Vincent stepped forward,
OF course Hilda must so. 1t was
their only chance.
Michael WINGED at the words.
Hilda climbed into the seat, and
the motor of the shabby car spun
and roared. Michael remembered
little later Of that mad ride. Fifty
miles over desert roads. Claymore
in the distance, and-merciful God!
the wings Of ship visible over
the little rise.
The pilot was a tubby little man
with g. mustache. Glenn Wilbur
from Santa, Fe. he said, introduce
ing himself. His own ship he
made hobby of it-but If the lady
or the gentleman wanted to go up,
why sure. he'd be glad to.
Michael, briefly, explained. Clenl
Wilbur whistled. Yes, he knew the
region. Come along - they'd get
started pronto.
Hilda got back into the car
Michael had been driving. She said
she would go back to Miss Vincent.
The poor lady would be half-dis-
tracted. Hilda, as yet. wouldn't let
herself think of Dirk - or Frank
either. OF course, they were old
hands at this desert business. And
yet-you never knew!
BY the time she'd got the motor
running, Glenn Wilbur had TAXED
to the end of the field. The little
ship rose surely. Hilda brushed
her hands across her eyes. OF
course the whole thing was a
nightmare
The ship made a steady course
southwark. Michael's heart was
hammering against his ribs.
This man Wilbur was clever