Old Bones by Gwen Molnar

couldn’t even see the plane through the cloud of dust it kicked up, but as the engine slowed to a halt they saw ahead of them a shiny yellow, single-engine biplane. Its shape looked old-fashioned but the plane itself looked new. Casey had seen pictures of a similar plane in his father’s photo album of his early days as a young Mountie up north.
    By the time Casey and Mandy reached the plane, the pilot, wearing a beat-up leather jacket, had climbed down and was pulling off an ancient leather helmet and old-fashioned flying goggles. Hacking and wheezing from the dust, he began fanning his face with a brilliant white scarf. Casey couldn’t decide which was older, the man or the plane.
    â€œHe can’t be for real,” Mandy said under her breath, “but I’m sure glad he’s here, ghost or not.”
    â€œTimes like this,” the man said, his cough turning to a laugh that seemed to let the sun shine through the dusty air, “I could almost be persuaded to get me one of them glass bubble things for over the cockpit.” The laugh stopped as quickly as it had started and the pilot stood in front of Casey and Mandy, hands on his hips and a stern look on his face.
    â€œYou two had better have a good reason for that S.O.S.,” he said. “That’s a sacred sign, to be used only in real emergencies. They call me Mad Dog, and I don’t take kindly to being made a fool of.”
    â€œWe’re Mandy and Casey,” said Casey, “and we have a very good reason for signalling you. We desperately need your help, Mad Dog,” Casey went on. “Here’s why.” He gave Mad Dog a point-by-point summary of what had gone on and what was about to happen.
    â€œI’ve lived a long time, done some far-fetched things, and heard a lot of wild stories,” Mad Dog said, shaking his head, “but what you’ve told me is one of the wildest tales I’ve ever heard.”
    â€œBut it’s true, Mad Dog, honestly,” Casey said earnestly. “Every word of it is true, and we need your cellphone to call the museum.”
    â€œDon’t have one,” Mad Dog told him, “but this is your lucky day.” He climbed up and reached in the plane for his radio.
    â€œI’ll get hold of the local RCMP and tell them what’s going down,” he said. “If I know that Mountie crew, they’ll be on the situation in minutes.” He pressed a button and tried the mic. Nothing. He pressed it again and tried the mic. Nothing.
    â€œGol’darn thing!” He threw the radio back in the plane. “Looks like your luck has started waning. I’ve been meaning to get that blasted thing fixed.”
    â€œWhat’ll we do now?” asked Mandy.
    Casey turned to the pilot. “Can you take us back to Drumheller?”
    Mad Dog thought for a minute, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere in space.
    â€œI have enough gas,” he said, “but I don’t have enough space. Not for both of you. You can see this Jackaroo’s now a two-seater, with that tank sitting where two other seats used to be.”
    â€œYou go, Casey,” Mandy said. “You know better what the men look like and you’ll be more use. I feel rotten. I’ll stay here. There’s a bed in the house I can lie down on. I’ll rest till I’m rescued.”
    â€œAt least you’ll be more comfortable than you were in Horsethief Canyon,” Casey said.
    â€œRight,” Mandy agreed.
    â€œListen,” Mad Dog said, “if that car left a half hour ago, they’ll get to the museum before we can, what with my having to land at my strip way out of town.”
    â€œCouldn’t you track down their car before they get to town?” Casey asked. “I’m pretty sure I could spot it.”
    â€œNow, that’s an idea.” A big smile lit Mad Dog’s grizzled face. “If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s