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been their white plane following us!”
    The boys hunted for clues to the criminals’ identity but found nothing. Finally they returned to the plane. Winger and Frank had located the trouble. There was water in one of the fuel tanks.
    â€œWe think someone tampered with the plane,” Frank reported gravely. “Winger-says a couple of guys were hanging around while he was getting gas and checking her out.”
    â€œThose two I saw talking!” Chet exclaimed.
    â€œThen we’re lucky to be safe!” Joe cried out.
    â€œDid you fellows find anything?” Frank inquired.
    â€œNo,” Joe reported, “but from the cuts on the stumps, it’s a safe bet those trees were felled on purpose.”
    â€œWhoever did it surely went to a lot of trouble,” commented Winger as he tightened a coupling in the fuel line. “Maybe it’s a landing field, but the pilot would have to be pretty good to get in and out of here!”
    A few minutes later he added, “We’re ready to go. The really tough job is ahead—to take off!” He eyed the length of the clearing. “Well, I guess we can make it,” he said. “But I wish we could throw off some excess weight.”
    Joe eyed Chet slyly.
    â€œOh, no, you don’t!” the stout boy protested with a broad grin.
    They climbed back into the plane, and Winger took his place at the controls. He taxied to the end of the clearing and turned, taking advantage of every inch of ground. He applied the brakes until the engines roared, then zipped down the natural runway.
    The boys held their breath as the plane sped toward the trees at the far end of the open space. Suddenly, with a bound like a high jumper, the craft nosed up sharply. Boughs scratched the underside of the fuselage, but the ship soared into the sky unscathed. Winger was perspiring as he leveled off.
    â€œThat was great,” Frank praised him, and the others added their congratulations.
    It was late afternoon when the plane landed at Crowhead. Frank had identified the ranch from the layout of the buildings, and Winger set the wheels down on a big field alongside the house.
    Chet eyed his surroundings with suspicion, but everything seemed to be peaceful. Several cowhands came to the plane. After greetings and introductions were made, the men helped unload the luggage and two of them took it into the house. The boys paid Winger, thanked him, and said good-by.
    Two other cowhands escorted the boys to a wide vine-covered porch encircling three sides of the large ranch house. Cousin Ruth was there at the door and greeted them warmly.
    â€œIt’s a shame about your father,” she said, “but I’m grateful to you for coming out here to help me.”
    The boys introduced Chet to their cousin, who had changed considerably since they had last seen her. Her hair, once blond, was now streaked with gray, and her face was careworn from the ordeal of her husband’s death and the responsibilities of the ranch.
    After the visitors had brought Cousin Ruth up to date on the news from home, she showed them to two comfortably furnished bedrooms. Then they were treated to a sumptuous Western meal. Chet was in his glory.
    â€œGolly,” he cried, seeing the platter of juicy charcoaled steaks, “Bayport was never like this!”
    When the meal was over, the boys excused themselves and walked around the ranch. It was not until dusk had fallen that Ruth Hardy joined them again and broached the subject they were so eager to hear.
    They had gathered in the attractive, dark-beamed living room with its massive rough-stone fireplace. The widow closed the door, glanced furtively out the window, then launched into the story of the difficulties at Crowhead. The boys leaned forward attentively.
    â€œOne by one my best cowhands have been disappearing,” she began. “They leave very suddenly, taking all their belongings with them.”
    â€œAnd