THE TRAIL OF THE OPAL SKULL - CHAPTER IV

By John LeGallee

CHAPTER IV.  -Fireball in the Sky!

The story so far: Back in Los Angeles, where Jason Terrell and his pals ply their trades as beer truck drivers, a strange little man approached Jayce and the crew one dark Thursday night with a tale of ancient treasure; a bejeweled Jaguar skull rumored to have a Meso-American origin, and thought to have been concealed in the East Mojave desert many centuries ago. 

Professor Sloan, as the elderly scholar was soon revealed to be, was a longtime acquaintance of W. Westermann, the celebrated multi-millionaire recluse (a shadowy mentor figure to the boys). Prof. Sloan believed the Opal Skull held the key to understanding a heretofore unknown Meso-American civilization, but that it had been unwittingly destroyed during the construction of the Hoover Dam.

Sloan carried with him a letter of introduction from the mysterious Westermann (one of the few men alive who knew that Jason and his friends were weekend time-travelers; having developed an apparatus for this extraordinary avocation in the form of Big Blue, an old pickup truck adroitly modified for this task.)

 No sooner had the boys agreed to take on the job, when strange things started happening around the shop. 

When we last saw Jason and Gilbert, they were knocking back a few in Nipton’s dingy Blue Light Café near the California-Nevada border, and enjoying the company of local legend Deke Nivens, who was filling them in on the whereabouts and layout of the various holdings of the Longhammer Mining and Milling Co., as well as offering opinions concerning the riddle of the Opal Skull.

The scene erupted in a flash of violence and brutality however, when thugs from the Longhammer outfit crashed the party with murder in their crosshairs!

    .    .    .    .    .

Fifteen minutes after the boys quit Nipton, Big Blue was trudging up the pass on a line due East to Searchlight. The road was better maintained along this route than it had been west of here, but it was still no picnic. The way was dark and straight and steep as it climbed toward the Nevada border, and the boys didn’t feel like talking while they could still see Nipton. 

They had left town in a hurry after the fracas, not feeling satisfied with the conclusion of their business there. Red Watson had meant to kill  Jason Terrell, and no bones about it! Jayce had missed death by only a fraction of a second. 

Down in Nipton it very much appeared that Red and the other Longhammer henchman, “Swede” Malloy, had been looking for the boys. How these criminals knew the crew would be in Nipton, or indeed that they even existed was a mystery. Unfortunately, there had been no opportunity to interrogate these men in the aftermath of the shooting, for it was agreed by all that it would be best if the boys vacated Nipton as soon as possible.

 Our heroes quickly returned to the spot where they had stashed Big Blue. There they found King Snedley anxiously awaiting their arrival, having been alerted by the gunshot. King hopped into the truck immediately when the door was opened, and the gang hastened out of town. Now, as the three continued up the pass, the brave dog was reacting to the smell of adrenaline, gunpowder, and blood on the boys. Tensions ran high in the truck.

Gilbert Mantree was sitting very straight in his seat, with an intense look in his dark eyes. He had been anxious for his turn behind the wheel to begin, but Jason Terrell had just looked down the barrel of a .44 caliber revolver for what appeared would be the last time, and they both knew that piloting the big Dodge would do him some good.

Jason gripped the wheel a little tighter than usual. He operated the truck with machine-like precision as always, but still something was amiss. 

“You were talking to that old dude for a While,” Gilbert began, “Did he tell you anything good?”

“He said those Longhammer guys can be dangerous,” answered Jason awkwardly, suddenly shaking his head like a wet dog. Then he ran his fingers through his dark hair, smoothing it back in place.

Gilbert looked at him carefully. “I might have got that on my own,” he said.

Jason flashed a strange grin at Gilbert and went back to staring through the windshield. Then after a pause, “He thinks the skull might be in a cave, west of here.”

“Okay,” Gilbert registered. (“F___ the skull,” is what he was thinking.) King Snedley was sitting up now, and staring at Jason too. J.T. was definitely not his usual taciturn self. “What did he say about the Ferry?” Gilbert asked.

“Still don’t know,” Jason answered resignedly. “We didn’t get that far, ‘cause those guys came in. But there’s got to be a way across; if it isn’t down by Cottonwood Island, then it’ll be up at Nelson Landing. Probably. Unless it’s that sky-cable thing, but I don’t think it’s there yet,” he said, pondering. “We can ask at Searchlight.”

“Sky-Cable thing?” blurted Gilbert, looking concerned. 

Jason’s hands were itchy. It took him a while to answer. “The cars don’t float,” he said finally, “they pull them through the air!”

“What are you talking about?” demanded Gilbert.

“I don’t know,” admitted Jason. “I think I need to drink some water.”

“Yeah you do,” said Gilbert, “Let’s pull over!”

[In truth, both men were badly in need of water, although presently Jason was feeling it more acutely. Hydration was always a serious factor on a shunt but not for the reasons one would normally assume. A Temporal Shunt produces a jarring effect on the cellular tissue of one’s body. The factors involved were not well understood, but the simple solution was to drink lots of fluids. 

And, while eating foods contemporary with the shunt, that is to say foods procured in the past timelines, (in this case, 1924) always resulted in violent illness, the boys were free to forage liquids as they went. Still, it was easier to assimilate liquids from their natural timeline; so Big Blue was equipped with a fifty gallon copper lined barrel filled with fresh water from 1971.]

The boys were comfortably on the Nevada side of the border now, having passed the state line marker some five minutes before. Jason maneuvered Big Blue onto a two-track tributary of the Nipton road branching off to the North. The rough dirt trail twisted over a mound, down across a dry wash, and back up to a flat spot that looked like a fine place to stop. They would not be easily seen here from the road, but they’d have an unobstructed view of the valley from which they had just emerged.

Gilbert jumped out and threw a chock under the wheel as Jason shut down the motor and ancillary systems of the truck. The driver’s side door pushed open with a squeak as Jason and King piled out onto the crunchy gravel. With the motor off and the lights extinguished, a welcome feeling of calm descended upon the three.

They met just back of the cab on the left side where Jason was already climbing into the truck bed. He grabbed a big enameled pan out of the back and filled it from the barrel. Pausing first to splash water on his face, he passed the pan over to Gilbert who immediately placed it on the ground for King. Meanwhile, J.T. fished a couple of tin cups out of the box and filled them too, handing one to Gil, and drinking the other greedily as he filled up a large coffee can and climbed on down with it.

The boys sat down on the running board with the can in between them. And for many long minutes they stared in silence, looking back at the valley; just drinking, refilling their cups from the can, and drinking some more.

After a while they started feeling better. They had both downed several cups of water and their bodies were responding quickly. Their faculties began to return; it was easier to think now, and to breathe. The tightness in their muscles began to loosen, and their sense of humor showed signs of returning as well. 

King was still lapping up the water in his pan, although at a slightly slower rate. The silver feather around his neck was clinking rhythmically against the pan as he drank, making calming music for the three. Abruptly, he stopped drinking and lay down panting with his hind feet pointed behind him like one of those carved wooden flying pigs from Thailand. Jason and Gil regarded him with genuine affection. It was a beautiful night. If Hick Fenton hadn’t been kidnapped, this would have been a really nice moment.

More time passed in silence with the can getting emptier, and each man peering into the landscape, lost in his own thoughts. Then at once they each took a deep breath and turned to look at each other for the first time since they sat down, and immediately both started laughing. Without knowing it, each man had been sitting with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips long enough for it to have wilted.

“I  think we can risk a flame,” chuckled Jason while digging in his pocket. “I don’t think they’re coming up this way,” he continued, snapping his trusty Zippo open and holding it to Gil’s cigarette. “Anyway,” he concluded, lighting his own, “we would hear that big A.C. Mack from miles away if they were.”

Gilbert Mantree nodded, smiling as he blew smoke straight up in the air. They had both been thinking the same thought. “Where do you suppose they are going?” he wondered.

J.T. shrugged. “I’d guess they’re headed straight to the nearest company doctor they can trust. Probably somewhere this side of the river. Their outfit has holdings all over this region, according to Deke. Some of them above board --others, no one knows.”

“They might be doing some smuggling,” mused Gilbert. “It would explain them needing a plane.”

J.T. thought about it. “They could have legit reasons for a plane,” he opined.

“Not driven by goons,” Gilbert observed, shaking an ash loose.

Jason stared out over the valley and nodded thoughtfully. The plane hadn’t borne the Longhammer Company logo.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

Some hours earlier, Hick Fenton awoke again, his head still throbbing painfully. His throat was very dry, and he had a strong metallic taste in his mouth. His wrists were noticeably swollen now, and the rope binding them bit sharply into his flesh. Realizing he had drifted back into unconsciousness again, he wondered how much time had passed. He was still in the jostling airplane. He had certainly been hit harder than he’d thought. 

It was time to hatch an escape plan. The first step would be a systematic assessment of his situation. Careful to continue feigning unconsciousness, Hick began to look about the cabin through half closed eyes, turning his head only when the movements of the aircraft through the rough air seemingly rolled him around the floor. The cargo area in which he lay was loaded haphazardly with supplies, most of them typical of a mining operation, some others decidedly not.

He started compiling a mental list of the things he could see in the darkened interior of the ship. Near the front there were two cases of Dynamite, and a case each of Blasting Caps, slow burning Fuse, Mexican Beer, Canadian Whiskey, and U.S. Army Hand-Grenades(!). Aft of these were a 50lb. sack of flour, four dozen eggs, some Powdered Milk, a Winchester rifle, and a monkey wrench which matched the dent on Hick’s head. Back of these, a five gallon can of Kerosene, three cartons of Cigarettes, two Thompson sub-machine guns, and multiple boxes of Ammunition in assorted calibres including what appeared to be about 2000 rounds of .45acp and 2 cases of Govt. issue .30 Springfield Rifle Ball. Nearer to Hick was a canvas sack full of tools (shovels, picks, hammers, etc.), a locked toolbox, some hardhats, a small carton of Canned peaches, five large cans of Coffee, and a box containing 12 tins of Canned fish. At the extreme rear of the cabin there were 2 parachutes, a large flare-pistol, and a bag of leftover Chinese food, which incidentally, was not helping Hick’s nausea.

The pilots’ cabin, which was really part of the main compartment, and communicated directly with it, sat just fore of the upper wing, and was slightly elevated. In it, Hick could see Crease Mulraney and that loudmouth Guf Brinkston, the jerks that clobbered him, crowded together at the controls of the ship with their backs to him. 

The plane was a large single-engine cabin job, he recalled. He started to calculate the dimensions of the interior; mapping in his head the layout of the plane. The odds were against him and he knew it; any detail he was aware of could be the one that saves his life!

(At this point in the narrative, the reader may be wondering how it is that our injured hero was able to compile so thorough and detailed a manifest of the cargo he could see from the floor of a darkened airplane cabin through drowsy half closed eyelids. Indeed, a less generous reader might be fully justified in concluding that the author had overstepped the bounds of credulity and hence, strained his contract with the reader near to its breaking point. Allow me then, to remind you that Hick Fenton, as has been amply demonstrated in the two previous volumes of this series, is a singular individual, possessed of some rather remarkable attributes, among which are a seemingly flawless Photographic Memory, coupled with a phenomenal ability to store and retrieve facts, figures, and memories in his mind.

Recall as well, that in Chapter Two, Hick was looking directly inside the ship as it sat on the ground at the makeshift airstrip North of Barstow, and thus had ample time to employ his celebrated mental-photography apparatus before he was surprised by Guf Brinkston and Crease Mulraney, who quickly conked him on the head and absconded with him.)

Hick lay still now, confidant that his inventory of the deadly situation was as complete as it would ever be. Now, with detailed plans of the plane, and lists, and various calculations floating about in his head, Hick began to search for the opportunities that must be hidden within his predicament. Opportunities to stay alive!

One distracting thought, however, kept threatening to siderail his process: Hick couldn’t tell if he was awake or not. Not that it mattered that much; he could proceed with his plans either way, but his waking and sleeping thoughts were different, and he would have preferred to factor those differences into his calculations.

The sound of the motor was reverberating in the darkness all around him. The drone seemed to be getting louder; throbbing and ringing. The more he listened, the darker his environment seemed to be getting. Hick visualized the taut skin of the airplane resonating with the sound as the plane bumped through the sky. “It is the sound of a drum,” he thought, “or rather, a symphony of drums.” The notion emerged in his mind, seemingly from nowhere, that the drums were speaking to him.  They seemed to be saying, “I am the way out.”

The all-enveloping drum beat felt healing to Hick Fenton. Somehow, it seemed to be revitalizing him in the darkening cargo hold, and he began to relax into it, feeling oddly confident that whether asleep or awake, he was making progress.

The darkness was near total now. But lying there, Hick sensed something even darker within the plane, and it was moving closer. Something warm and dark, but strangely comforting was now hovering above him, nearly enveloping him like the sound of the beating drums. Presently, he felt soft, feminine hands on his chest, sliding up toward his face. The dark form moved closer, and suddenly he was being kissed on the lips. Warm, full, soft lips. The dark body fully pressed against him. 

This kiss gave him strength. Hick felt more awake now, (even though he was now fully convinced he was dreaming,) and much of his pain and discomfort disappeared. The woman-thing moved away slightly after the kiss, and Hick observed that the blackness of her form appeared to be dense animal fur. She started to sit up, drawing her hands back across his chest and abdomen as she went. As she straightened up, Hick saw her more clearly in silhouette. She looked more like a panther than a woman.

The panther-thing now slowly stood up, turned, and began to stalk off. As she turned, she caressed Hick with her long furry tail; just as though she were a dancer flirting with him with her feathered boa. Hick noticed a pattern of spots emerge on her fur as she moved through the cargo; spots like those of a Jaguar.

There seemed to be more light in the plane now, as though it were glowing. A high frequency electric glow, he thought, something like an Aurora Borealis. The light began to flicker, and Hick glanced up to see a spot on the ceiling begin to catch fire. The flames burned a hole in the ceiling above him, and Hick climbed on out and stood on the top of the plane. “It’s nice out here,” he thought, “like standing on the deck of a riverboat in Spring.” 

The constellations were bright, and it felt good to be out of the close confines of the cabin. Much of the ship was on fire now, and the smoke was twisting straight up into the sky. Hick followed the smoke trail with his eyes, and began to rise with it and float and climb into the sky as well. The higher he climbed, the brighter the stars grew. He was unimaginably high now, but the drumbeat was just as intense. He chanced a look down and saw that the mountains had flattened out a bit, and he could begin to see the curvature of the Earth. 

He climbed still higher, and abruptly he found he had reached the very canopy of the sky and could proceed no further. The canopy extended from horizon to horizon, and Hick understood it to be the upper boundary of his natural world. The canopy he experienced was something like a thick spongy membrane. He saw the smoke slowly penetrating the soft membrane, and determined to follow it in. Squeezing through, he soon found himself emerging in another world, a world above the sky.

It was an odd kind of place, this “world above the sky,” and Hick found he could move about it freely. Soon he’d alighted on a little patch of earth. It felt like they were standing on a mountain top, but couldn’t see the rest of the mountain below. Hick was astonished to be standing there with Marcus Dee!

To be honest, Dee looked a little different than usual though. For one thing, his hand-carved crutches appeared to be made of bone. Also, it seemed like he might have bird’s wings growing out of his back. Glistening 24-karat gold bird’s wings!

Dee smiled that strange smile of his, tilting his head to the side as he did so. He made a slight gesture, offering Hick the cigarette he’d been smoking; a short nub of a filterless Pall Mall he held in the yellowed fingertips of his left hand. Hick declined, feeling a bit confused. It seemed like there were more than two of them up on this mountain.

“You can ask them a question up here,” Dee explained in a confidential tone. “They will answer you.”

Feeling somewhat embarrassed, Hick answered slowly, “I need to know how to get loose when I’m tied up.”

Another figure stepped forward into the light; a short, powerfully built, curly-haired man in a green suit. He had a head like an anvil, and the smile of a vampire. Hick recognized him as the legendary magician, Harry Houdini. “It’s simple,” Houdini said, staring intently at Hick. “When you wish to be bound, you must make yourself big before the ropes go on. Then, when you want them off, you make yourself small.” 

“I didn’t wish to be bound,” Hick explained. “I was unconscious when they did it. I couldn’t make myself big”

“Well next time you have yourself bound, make yourself big,” replied the magician.

Hick’s dander was up. “I don’t have myself bound. They did it without my consent. I didn’t choose this situation.”

Houdini’s eyes softened. “We are all bound with ropes of our own making. We are all bound with our consent.”

Hick looked confused, and a little frustrated. Houdini clarified, “It’s you. It’s always you.”

A dark figure then stepped up between the Great Houdini and Marcus Dee. It was the Panther Goddess from the cargo hold. She was woman shaped again. Standing her full height, she was unbelievably tall. With an imperious look in her fascinating eyes she slowly donned a magnificent headdress crowned with a glowing jaguar skull. The skull looked to be composed of a multitude of fire opals welded together, each glimmering a different color. The oversized teeth were solid gold, and the back of the skull was festooned with large colorful birds’ feathers.

The headdress formed a hood which attached to the sleek fur tippet she wore atop her long black silken gown. From her spacious sleeves she now produced a folded fan in each hand. Facing Hick, and capturing him with her eyes, she snapped the fans open dramatically, and began to display them with a graceful series of ritual hand gestures. The fans were large, and made from the feathers of numerous varieties of brightly colored tropical birds.  The feathers were each about two feet long, and every one of them appeared to have come from a different type of bird. No two colors were the same, and Hick imagined these must have been birds from every epoch and continent on Earth.

As the Panther Goddess continued to make the fans dance in her hands, her bewitching eyes glowed and flashed with all the colors of the skull headdress, and reflected the movements of the fans. Utterly transfixed on the goddess and her movements, Hick felt his body becoming powerfully attracted to her. It was as though she was a giant magnet whose fields had attached to the iron in his bloodstream and were drawing him closer. Rays of pure color now began to project from the tips of the feathers and create moving prismatic orbs all around them.

As if on cue, Houdini and Marcus Dee took up positions on either side of Hick, faced him, and stepped two paces back. Then, with the practiced flair of a famous magician, Houdini waved his hands and fingers in front of him, and caused Hick Fenton to levitate like in a classic stage show. At first Hick went straight up a foot or two, then found himself lying face up, as though on an operating table, while he slowly spun clockwise in front of the Panther Goddess.

Houdini caused Hick’s rotation to cease, and he and Marc both backed away to the two enormous drums flanking the scene. With a signal from the panther-woman, Harry Houdini and Marcus Dee began playing their drums in earnest; adding the voices of these massive instruments to the already ever-present drumbeat that permeated this strange world.

As the air about them reverberated to the deafening drums, The Panther Goddess dramatically raised one fan aloft in her right hand, wielding it like a cutlass above a hovering, prostrate Hick Fenton.

Looking up from his floating repose, Hick saw the panther-woman staring deeply into his eyes, her face swelling with emotion. Suddenly, the fan chopped down like an executioner’s ax and severed one end of Hick from the other!

The Panther Goddess now stood with her legs apart in a wide stance, holding both fans above her head, palms out, while the top part of Hick turned slowly clockwise, and the lower portion turned counter-clockwise. After three full 360o turns, Hick’s severed parts slowed down and came to a stop in perfect alignment. 

It had all happened so fast that Hick had barely been aware of what was going to happen before it was all over. Now, he found he was startled at the outcome, but also cautiously optimistic.

The colored light rays were still streaming out of the feather tips as fiercely as ever. The Goddess held the left-hand fan up now, and slowly brought it into play like a surgical scalpel. She was removing something invisible from Hick Fenton’s abdomen using a very careful touch. Then, holding it aloft, she transferred it to an enormous condor on the wing, who carried it off toward the West.

The severed portions of Hick’s body were now glowing with the colors of the fan-rays. It was barely discernable when it started, but now the wounds were positively radiating, and Hick could no longer look directly at them. With fields of light-energy swirling around him, Hick felt his body being pushed back together and welded in place.

The tall, beautiful spirit folded her fans and put them away. Now, she bent down next to him, and placed her hands on Hick’s stomach and chest. Leaning over him, she began to blow something into his solar plexus from about a foot away. It looked like the flickering light from a movie projector was streaming out of her mouth and into Hick’s body. Hick was certain he knew this movie, that the movie was one of his old time favorites. But he couldn’t sense what movie it was, only how it made him feel.

When it was over, Hick found himself standing with the other three, near a large, mature Oak tree. Marcus Dee stood uncomfortably close and shook his hand firmly. “Be your word, Fenton,” he said, in that odd, gasping, fish-like way of his.

Houdini moved in front of Hick. “Remember the key, now,” he said, while producing a silver key ‘from thin air’ through expert sleight of hand, and shoving it in the right front breast pocket of Hick’s jacket.

While Hick Fenton was wondering what the in h____ this meant, he felt Marcus Dee behind him messing with his arms. “Make yourself big,” Marc advised, as he began tying Hick’s wrists.

“You must go into the passage with him, if you would be free” the panther-woman said. She gestured to a badger who had silently joined them. The badger then squeezed through a small hole at the base of the tree. Hick looked at her balefully, and she said, “Make yourself small...”

Frustrated, but anxious to leave this place, Hick did as he was directed. Not exactly knowing how, he made himself “small” and started to shimmy into the burrow.

.    .    .    .    .

Ahead in the cabin as the plane twisted through the night sky, Guf Brinkston had a thought. Hollering over the throaty growl of the engine, he suggested, “Y’know, instead of shootin’ that guy, we should jus trow him outta the airplane, an lighten the load!”

“You know why we’re takin’ him to camp, Guf.” Mulraney hollered back, “We got to find out what he knows!”

“AAAh, he aint never waking up!” countered Guf, turning in his seat to look behind him as though to emphasize his point. Startled to see what was transpiring in the main cabin, Guf drew out his Luger and snapped the action back, charging the pistol. “I’m gonna kill that little ____-for-brains!” he screamed.

“Put that thing away, you Idiot!” cried the pilot, “you’ll hit something back there and kill us all!” 

“Aw, I can hit better than that!” Guf growled, prying the pilot’s fingers off his arm as he struggled to crawl over the wicker seat. Guf was facing backwards now, struggling with both the pilot and the tight space he was trying to force his body through. The pilothouse of the Longhammer bush plane was cramped under the best of circumstances, but with the likes of Crease Mulraney and Guf Brinkston wedged up there, the situation was turning into something Marcus Dee liked to call “an impaction.” 

Crease Mulraney, who usually had his hands full just keeping the plane in the air, was now locked in a struggle with his blood-mad partner. And Guf, who was a little bit top-heavy to begin with, began to teeter over the seat. Balanced on his mid-section, something rather primal began to overtake Guf. From the waist up, he was driven by only one thought: get to Hick Fenton and murder him. But his body from the waist down had gone into a panic. Already, his hob-nail boots had knocked the ship’s magnetic compass from its perch above the windshield, and his flailing legs seemed determined to leave no part of the ship’s controls undamaged.

Mulraney, meanwhile, had given up trying to get Guf to sit back down. And, because his actions were split between trying to keep the plane under control, trying to defend himself (and the plane’s controls) from Guf’s feet, and in general, just trying to survive the next few minutes; he had no time to unleash the string of obscenities he felt bursting in his heart. 

In an effort to keep control of the situation, Crease grabbed ahold of Guf’s pant leg and concentrated on flying the aircraft. Guf’s fury would not be dampened though, and he began swinging at Crease behind him with his gun hand to knock himself clear. As he did so, he started to slip over the seat, into the back of the airplane and his gun hand got stuck between the seats. Squealing in frustration, he yanked it free, sending a bullet through the oil pressure gauge and into the half empty fuel tank behind it in the bargain. A second bullet came out quickly and gave Crease another scar on his head to justify his nick-name. Still fixated on killing Hick, and beside himself with rage, Guf found his foot fouled in the ship’s wheel, and started to kick himself free. 

The plane was now rollicking every which way, with Crease heroically attempting to counter the swinging yoke while trying to disengage Guf’s foot from it. Guf was kicking with both feet and twisting, trying to propel himself to the back of the plane. Pulling on the stuck foot, and pushing on the back of the seat with his gorilla-like arms, Guf yanked the plane into a nose up attitude and finally got free of the yoke, kneeing Crease square in the face in the process. 

Finally, Brinkston’s oafish, teetering form tipped into full totter as he slipped face-first into the cargo hold. Kicking as he went, Guf’s right boot hit Mulraney in the ear and nearly tore it half off. As the plane stood on its tail, much of the cargo moved aft along with Guf, and the plane’s wings began to shudder violently.

With the nose up, Hi-Test gasoline poured through the bullet hole and onto Crease’s lap. The plane went into a full-power stall, dropping the nose hard over immediately.

Crease Mulraney wasn’t a great pilot, but even with a face full of blood and one eye out of action, he knew enough to shove the yoke forward for all it was worth and kick the rudder hard right or they’d all be soon dead. Unfortunately, with the loose cargo shifted aft, and the ‘G’s they were pulling, the ship was out of balance and recovery was slow. Overcome with rage, Guf was clawing his way aft to Hick, heedless of his own safety, as the ship entered a deadly flat spin.

Meanwhile, Hick Fenton was head-first down a badger hole, desperately cutting his wrists free on a sharp amethyst crystal, while above him in the hole a single-minded badger seemed to be trying to pull off his pants. The badger hole now seemed to be spinning madly however, and shortly he awoke to find himself upside down in the extreme rear of the Longhammer airplane, rubbing his ropes on a sharp piece of metal behind him, with his legs above him hopelessly tangled in some cargo.

Several tins of Kerosene fell over, giving Guf a clear view of Fenton. The thug raised his right hand to shoot, and was astonished to find it empty. Frantic to kill Hick, he clawed his way up toward the rear of the plane as it spun. Pushing cargo behind him like a mole as he advanced, Guf inadvertently shifted enough weight forward to enable the ship to recover from the stall. 

Crease felt the ship recover, but with blood in his eyes, and most of the instruments smashed, he had trouble knowing if the ship was straight and level. He was flying blind, by the seat of his gasoline soaked pants, and it wasn’t going well. The ship was weaving around like a carnival ride. “What’re you doing back there?” he hollered at Guf, “Let’s try to get through this alive!”

“Hold yer HORSES,” Guf shot back, “I’m almost there!”

Hick tried to right himself, and whatever his feet were tangled in fell over and took his legs with it. He sat up now, still holding the object he was using to cut through his bonds. The ropes were looser now, but his wrists were still tied. 

Guf tried to stand up and stagger toward him, but a sack of flour fell and broke on his head. Cargo was busting loose all around them and the floor was slick with Whiskey, Beer, Kerosene, and broken eggs. A crate slid across the floor and broke right through the cargo door, taking the door with it, hinges and all. Wiping flour from his eyes, Guf tried to stand up once more and found himself completely untethered in mid-air, before hurling an expletive with all his might and landing on his elbow.

Hick had determined that the sheet metal object he held behind him was somewhat pistol shaped, and he resolved to put it to good use. Just then, Guf rose up, and with Herculean effort, flung himself at our hero. At once, Hick rolled over and let loose with the ship’s emergency flare-pistol. Guf’s startled face lit up with terror as the flare passed close enough to burn him and bounced through the plane on its way up front.

Like a sparkling comet, the flare glanced off Crease Mulraney’s head, luckily without doing too much damage, (Crease was gifted with a very hard head) but unfortunately his lap was now aflame. The flare smashed against the instrument panel and bounced its way back into the cargo hold and finally caught itself up on an ammunition crate, having deployed its parachute. The flare was still burning brightly, as was much of the plane’s interior.

Guf had launched himself at Hick and was mid-fling when the flare went past. When he landed on Hick he was fit to be tied. Grabbing Hick by the ears, he hauled him to his feet, and hurled him toward the open cargo door. Hick landed on the floor, and looked back at Guf without emotion. Overcome with anger, Guf started for him, tripped on a toolbox, got up, tripped again, and hurriedly crawled the rest of the way to his victim. 

Guf Brinkston was on top of Hick, ready to pummel him with his massive fist when he looked down and saw his trusty monkey wrench on the floor next to his knee. “Just too perfect!” he thought. It was like an omen. He reached down to grab the wrench and hold it over his head so Hick could see what he was being bludgeoned with before his face got caved in, but Guf’s hand was empty! The plane had banked over to Starboard, and Guf caught a glimpse of the wrench sliding out the door just before he fell out, himself.

Hick lay on the floor, astonished for a short moment. Then he heard cargo shifting again and he slid out the door. On the way out, he snagged on something, and dangled by his feet long enough to see the plane on its side, lit up like a Japanese lantern, its mighty engine howling at full throttle. 

Then, with a lurch he was free; falling headfirst through the firmament like Guf and the wrench before him. 

Looking for more OPAL SKULL? The next segment of this thrilling story can be found in the latest issue of the Searchlight Gold Beam.