Chapter 4: Flight!

But when Tholfsen and Murray returned with the coal, Vanderschoof was missing as well as Stevens, and that evening when the car in which Marta Lami had accompanied Roberts on the exploration of the Brooklyn Heights district drew up at the Institute, it had only one occupant.

“What happened to Miss Lami?” asked Ben.

Roberts gazed at him, surprised. “Didn’t you send them? While we were at the St. George Hotel a car came along with Stevens and two of those new men in it. One was the Greek. They spoke to her for a minute and she said they brought a message from you that she was to go with them.”

“M-hm,” said Ben. “I see. Well, as long as they don’t come back, it’s all right.”

The car whirled out the Albany Post Road in a silence that was indicative of the rivalry that had already sprung up between Stevens and Vanderschoof. As for Pappagourdas he found himself demoted to the position of a “yes man.”

They had provided themselves with a liberal supply of guns and ammunition, and with the foolish conservatism of the very rich, refusing to believe that money was valueless, had raided store after store until they had acquired a considerable supply of currency.

“This is the Bear Mountain Bridge, isn’t it?” said the dancer. “Let’s stop at West Point and pick up a cadet. They’re so ornamental.”

Stevens glanced at her sourly from the wheel. “We’ve got to hurry if we want to get to Albany,” he said.

“Still,” offered Vanderschoof protectingly, “why not stop at the Point? We might find some people there. I know Colonel Grayson. Played golf with him there last summer. Ha, ha! When I holed out an eighteen-footer at the seventh, he was so mad, he wouldn’t speak to me all the rest of the afternoon. It was the turning point of the battle. Ha, ha!”

Stevens, with a grunt, swung the wheel round and began the ascent of the long bridge ramp. He realized he had been outmaneuvered. To cover his retreat, he remarked, “Isn’t that a bird?”

“The high muck-a-muck said something about birds last night,” said the dancer, “but he’s such a Holy Joe that I didn’t pay any attention.”

“Aren’t the birds all dead?” asked the Greek, respectfully. “I saw some in the gutter outside my window and they were turned to iron.”

The car coughed to the rise, made it and slid across the bridge.

“It is a bird,” said the dancer, “and what a bird! Papa, look at the ostrich.”

Pappagourdas and Vanderschoof followed her pointing finger. Along its direction they saw, a couple of hundred feet behind and above them, the widespread wings and heavy body of the same type of four-winged bird Roberts had encountered. Vanderschoof tugged at his pocket. “Maybe it’ll come close enough to give us a shot,” he said hopefully.

The bird was certainly gaining on them, though the speedometer of the car had risen beyond forty miles an hour. As it drew nearer, they could make out the high-domed, most un-birdlike head set with pop-eyes fixed in a permanent expression of astonishment, the short bill, slightly hooked at the tip, and the huge expanse of the wings. It seemed to be inspecting them as a smaller avian might inspect a bug crawling across a road.

As it drew nearer, it swooped to within a couple dozen feet of the car; they noticed that its feet, folded back beneath the body, had a metallic luster. Then Vanderschoof fired, with a bang that almost deafened the rest. The bird seemed surprised rather than frightened or resentful. At the sound of the gun it bounded upward a few feet and then swung again, moving along parallel with the car and twisting its neck to take a good look at the passengers. The chance was too good to be missed; both Pappagourdas and Vanderschoof fired this time, steadying themselves against the motion of the car. One of the shots evidently went home, for a couple of feathers floated down, and the bird, with a series of ear-piercing squawks, spiralled down the side of the mountain toward the river-bank, three or four hundred feet below.

“Bull’s eye!” yelled Pappagourdas. “Gimme the cigar! Let’s stop the car and go get it.”

“What’s the use,” said Stevens, “you couldn’t eat it, anyway. Listen to him yell, would you?”

Above the sound of the motor the screeching of the wounded bird still reached them faintly from the bottom of the cliff.

“I think it’s a damn shame to shoot up the poor thing,” said Marta Lami.

“Oh, he’ll be all right,” declared Vanderschoof. “Don’t believe we touched anything but one wing, and it’ll just sit and eat ground-berries till it gets well.”

It was perhaps half an hour later, and the distant hills were beginning to acquire a fine powder of dusk when they saw the second bird--a rapidly moving speck, far behind them and to one side of the road. Vanderschoof saw it first and called the attention of the rest, but they quickly lost interest.

He continued to observe it. Were there two? He thought so, yet--. A moment later he was sure there was more than one, as the car breasted a rise and gave them a better view. They seemed to be following fast. The ridiculous idea that they meant to do something about their fallen comrade came to him, to be dismissed instantly. Yet the birds were certainly following them and he thought he made out a third, behind the others.

The car coasted down a long slope, crossed a bridge and began to go up a hairpin rise. Vanderschoof looked back. The birds were invisible; he looked again, in the right direction this time and saw them, so much larger and nearer that he cried out. The others ceased their low-voiced conversation at the sound of his voice. “What’s the matter, papa?” asked the dancer.

“Those birds. Look.”

“Why it looks almost as though they were following us.”

She sat upright in the seat and squinted at them under an upraised hand. The queer birds were close enough now so that the difference between their fore-wings and the steadily beating hind wings could be made out.

“You don’t suppose they could be mad at us?” she asked.

“Don’t be foolish,” said Stevens, without turning around. “Birds aren’t intelligent enough for that.” A long straight stretch lay before him and he let the car out. Vanderschoof, watching with a trace of anxiety, saw the birds also put on more speed. “They are following us,” he declared with conviction.

“Look,” said Marta Lami, “that one is carrying something, too.”

As she spoke, the bird, flying high, gained a position just above and ahead of the car, dropped the object and instantly wheeled off and down to one side. There was a heavy thud on the road ahead, and a big rock bounded and rolled a score of feet before the car.

Marta Lami screamed. Vanderschoof swore, with feeling. “Get out your guns and drive them off,” said Stevens. “You fools, why did you have to shoot at them in the first place?”

Before he had finished speaking Vanderschoof had his revolver out and was firing at the second of the birds, now swinging into position above them with another rock. He missed, but the bird, surprised, dropped its burden too soon, and they had the satisfaction of seeing it bounce among the trees at the right of the road.

“Keep after them, that’s right,” said Stevens. “We’re not far from the Point and we can get under cover there.”

Both the men in the back were shooting now--Vanderschoof slowly and with deliberate aim; Pappagourdas in a panic-stricken rafale at the third bird, which, higher than the others, paid not the slightest attention to them but jockeyed for position. Stevens began to twist the steering wheel--the car described a fantastic series of zigzags.

“What are they?” he asked. “I never saw anything like them.”

“I don’t know,” replied Vanderschoof. (Bang!) “Like the condors (Bang!) I used to see in South America, only bigger.”

Crash! The third rock burst in a shower of fragments not ten feet away, one piece striking the windshield with a ping, and sending a long diagonal crack across it. The first of the three birds was swinging up again with another rock, screeching hoarse communications at the others.

Marta Lami had fallen silent. As the bird began to circle above them, picking its position, Pappagourdas suddenly ceased firing, with a curse. “Have you got any more bullets?” he asked. “Mine are all gone...” His voice broke suddenly, half-hysterical, “It is the cranes of Ibicos,” he cried.

The stone struck behind them. Evidently the bird had a healthy respect for Vanderschoof’s aim, which had kept it at such a height that it could not aim accurately. But as the next stone missed they changed their tactics, screaming to each other. The third bird, whose turn it was to drop a stone, merely flew along parallel with them, high enough to be out of range, waiting for the return of the others. When they arrived, all three strung out in a line and released their rocks simultaneously. There was a resounding crash, the car reeled perilously on the edge of the steep road, then righted and drove on with a clattering bang. Looking over the side Vanderschoof could see where the big rock had struck the right running board, tearing a foot or two of it loose to trail on the road.

“Wait,” he cried, but Stevens shook his head.