A thud on the ground told where another bag of ballast had fallen.
The crash of the fallen fifty-pound bag of sand probably saved the
Cibola. Shot after shot poured in the direction of the sound,
although the Cibola, dragging forward, yet refused to rise. Elmer,
at the bottom of the ladder, was helping the car onward in low
bounds by touching the ground with one foot.
Then the air craft settled again. Elmer's weight was too much. A
mad thought came into the boy's brain. The Indians had located the
new invader and yells nearby told that hot pursuit was already being
made. Then the spit, spit, of new shots showed the risk the boys
had taken. Elmer realized it. Should he hang on and endanger the
lives of his friends, or should he let go?
There seemed no time to think, but the boy's hand had already
loosened when out of the black came the hot breath of the foremost
pursuer. As the savage sprang forward Elmer's free arm gave him a
blow full in the face. At the same instant the Cibola sprang upward
like a bullet. A volley of shots rang out below, but they were too
late.
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