Free The Avenger 30 - Black Chariots by Kenneth Robeson Page B

on the floor of the small cockpit, hands tied behind him.
    “How much you make a year?” asked Dirks, not looking at him.
    “My work isn’t actually of a salaried nature.”
    “What I figured,” said the big man. “I been around a lot, you know, and I never seen a smart-mouth guy yet who ever made big money. You know why that is? I will tell you. It’s because nobody likes a smart-mouth guy.”
    “How about Fred Allen, Fibber McGee, Edgar Bergen, Joe Penner, Jack Pearl?” Cole had his right wrist halfway out of the restraining ropes.
    “Joe Penner ain’t on the radio no more.”
    “He passed on.”
    “See what I mean?”
    They were flying low over the flat desert, not more than a few hundred feet up. Now the ship began wobbling slightly.
    “Bumpy road?” said Cole.
    “Wind,” said Dirks. “Wind coming up. One thing this crate ain’t no good in, it’s wind. Course, I remember a crate I flew back in 1933. I had me a job with an air circus. I would come roaring over this field full of rubes in this checkerboard biplane. I’d jerk this special little knob I had rigged up, and colored smoke would start coming out the rear end. It was something.”
    Cole concentrated on working his hand further loose from the ropes. He said nothing.
    After a moment Dirks asked, “Ain’t you got no smart-mouth remark about that?”
    “Some things are too beautiful for words.”
    “I maybe could have been somebody in that racket, the aviation dodge,” said Dirks. “Somebody like Roscoe Turner. I might look pretty good with a little mustache like his. But my first loyalty is to my home country, so that’s why I’m doing what I’m doing.”
    “It’s just as well. A mustache wouldn’t suit you at all.” He had the hand free. The tangle of ropes fell away, and Cole could use both hands.
    Dirks said, “That blonde, she’s kind of cute.”
    “Which blonde?”
    “The tall one, not the little one. Oh, I suppose the little one ain’t bad, but I never took to small women. Once in Columbus when I was traveling with—”
    Cole had gotten a half-nelson on the man. “Okay, Dirks, here’s what you do, old fellow, if you don’t want to choke before your time.”
    “Watch out, that’s dangerous.”
    The chariot was wobbling more wildly now.
    “Set this thing down, right now,” ordered Cole.
    “We ain’t near nothing,” protested Dirks, gasping for air. “It’s no place down there.”
    Cole reached around and took the man’s revolver from under his jacket. “I imagine if we sit here in the desert till sun up somebody will spot us.”
    “Look, let me set it down near a highway at least, huh?”
    Pressing the gun to the back of Dirk’s thick neck. Cole said, “Very well, chum, but no cuteness.”
    “I got a great fear about being lost in the desert. Ever since I seen Beau Geste the last time.”
    Cole glanced down through the window of the small cockpit. There were no lights below them at all. “How far do you have to fly to find us a touch of civilization?”
    “Not far, pal, not more than fifty miles or so. This baby’ll cover that in—” Dirks threw himself to the side, then swung back a fist.
    He hit Cole in the Adam’s apple. Cole gagged and stumbled back. He started to bring the gun up.
    Dirks hit him again. “You ain’t as smart as you think, pal.”
    Cole went to his knees, and his head banged against the back of the pilot seat.
    “Now, we’ll continue . . . Holy smokes!”
    The craft was bobbing through the darkness, swooping down, spinning up.
    “See what you made me—”
    There was the ground. The craft met it.

CHAPTER XVIX

Barging In
    The bearded old man swung his lead-tipped cane in the direction of the registration desk.
    The clerk flinched.
    “Dadburn it,” shouted the old man, “I want to see the goshdarn manager of this here pesthole.”
    The clerk was slowly sinking out of range, in case the cane whooshed again through the air. “That’s quite impossible, sir. Mr. Danker is .