Then he jumped from the tracks into the creek bed and ran with astonishing agility the hundred yards to the machine gun whose gunners had fled. As Josephine flashed by low overhead, Frost spun the heavy weapon’s carriage and fired a long burst after her. Bell drove his machine straight at him. The Remington was empty. He drew his pistol and fired as fast as he could pull the trigger. Bracketed by flying lead, Harry Frost fired back until the ammunition belt, with no one to guide it into the breech, jammed.

Bell saw Josephine’s machine dip a wing. It dropped toward the ground, skimming the tracks, and Bell feared that she was wounded or her controls so badly damaged that she would slam a wing into the ground and cartwheel to oblivion. Heart in his throat, he watched with terrible anticipation that turned to astonished relief as the Celere monoplane lifted its wing, straightened up, and wobbled into the sky.

ISAAC BELL STUCK CLOSE to Josephine all the way to Abilene, where the tracks of the Abilene & Northern Railway, the Abilene & Southern, and the Santa Fe crossed the Texas & Pacific. She landed clumsily, skidding half around in front of the freight station. Bell alighted nearby.

He found her slumped over her controls, clutching her arm. A machine-gun slug had grazed her, tearing the skin and furrowing flesh. Her wedding dress was streaked with blood and engine grease. Her lips were trembling. “I nearly lost control.”

“I am so sorry. I should have stopped him.”

“I told you he’s animal sly. Nobody can stop him.”

Bell tied a handkerchief around the wound, which was still oozing blood. Small boys had come running, trailed by old men with long Civil War beards. Men and boys gaped at the yellow machines side by side in the dust.

“Run, you boys,” Bell shouted, “bring a doctor!”

Josephine straightened up but did not try to climb down from her machine. Her entire body seemed rigid with the sustained effort to keep flying. She was pale and looked utterly exhausted. Bell threw an arm around her shoulders.

“It’s all right to cry,” he said gently. “I won’t tell anybody.”

“My machine’s O.K.,” she answered, her voice small and distant. “But he ruined my wedding dress. Why am I crying? I don’t even care about this silly dress. Wait a minute!” She looked around, suddenly frantic. “Where’s Steve Stevens?”

The doctor came running with his medical bag.

“Did you see a white biplane with a big fat driver?” Josephine demanded.

“Just left, ma’am, headed for Odessa. Said he’s hoping to make El Paso in a couple of days. Now, let’s help you off this machine.”

“I need oil and gasoline.”

“You need a proper bandage, carbolic acid, and a week in bed, little lady.”