mound where the
youngster was buried.

Mac had told Blake how he argued with the man to prove up on his
claims and make a fortune for himself. But no--fortunes didn't
interest him. And there were some this-and-that and be-damned-to-'em
people who would never get _this_ invention--the dirty, thieving rats!

And Mac, while he laughed, had seemed half to believe it. Said the old
cuss was so sincere, and he had nothing to sell. And--there was the
ship! It never got there without being flown in, that was a cinch. And
there wasn't a propellor on it nor a place for one--just open ports
where a blast came out, or so the inventor said.

Captain Blake swung his ship on another slanting line and continued to
comb the country for such marks as McGuire had seen. And one moment he
told himself he was a fool to be on any such hunt, while the next
thought would remind him that Mac had believed. And Mac had a level
head, and he had radioed from Venus!

There was the thing that made anything seem possible. Mac had got a
message through, across that space, and the enemy had ships that could
do it. Why not this one?

And always his eyes were searching, searching, for a level rocky
expanse and a tree-filled valley beyond, with something, it might be,
shining there, unless the inventor had camouflaged it more carefully
now.

* * * * *

It was later on the same day when Captain Blake's blocky figure
climbed over the side of the cockpit. Tired? Yes! But who could think
of cramped limbs and weary muscles when his plane was resting on a
broad, level expanse of rock in the high Sierras and a sharp-cut
valley showed thick with pines beyond. He could see the corner only of
a rough log shack that protruded.

Blake scrambled over a natural rampart of broken stone and went
swiftly toward the cabin. But he stopped abruptly at the sound of a
harsh voice.

"Stop where you are," the voice ordered, "and stick up your hands!
Then turn around and get back as fast as you can to that plane of
yours." There was a glint of sunlight on a rifle barrel in the window
of the cabin.

Captain Blake stopped, but he did not turn. "Are you Mr. Winslow?" he
asked.

"That's nothing to you! Get out! Quick!"

Blake was thinking fast. Here was the man, without doubt--and he was
hostile as an Apache; the man behind that harsh voice meant business.
How could he reach him? The inspiration came at once. McGuire was the
key.

"If y