by B. M. Bower
“Well, all right—there’s a couple of good ones I’d like to have gentled down. Cold’s better, ay?”
“I—why, I guess so.” Johnny just said that from force of habit. His mind refused to react to a question which to him was meaningless. Johnny could not remember when he had last had a cold.
“Well, all right—tomorrow or next day, maybe. I’ll have the boys keep up the two I want rode regular. If everything’s running along smooth, you better come up and get ’em. And when they’re bridlewise and all, you can bring ’em in and get more. These boys won’t have time to get more ’n the rough edge off.…”
When he had hung up the receiver, Johnny sat down on a box, took his jaws between his two capable palms and thought, staring fixedly at the floor while he did so.
It took him a full twenty minutes to settle two obvious facts comfortably in his brain, but he did it at last and crawled into his bed with a long sigh of thankfulness, though his conscience hovered dubiously over those facts like a hen that has hatched out goslings and doesn’t know what to do about them. One fact—the big, important one—was that Johnny still had his job, and that it looked as secure and permanent as any job can look in this uncertain world. The other fact—the little, teasingly mysterious one—was that Sudden evidently did not know of Johnny’s two-day absence from camp, and foolishly believed Johnny the victim of a cold.
But Johnny’s conscience was too much a boy’s resilient fear of consequences to cluck very long over what was, on the face of it, a piece of good luck. It permitted Johnny to sleep and to dream happily all night, and it did not pester him when he awoke at daylight.
Just because it became a habit with him, I shall tell you what was the first thing Johnny did after he crawled into his clothes. He went out hastily and saddled his horse and rode to the rock-faced bluff, turned into a niche and rode back to the farther end, then swung sharply to the left.
It was there. Dusty, desert-whipped, one wing drooping sharply at the end, the flat tire accentuating the tilt; with its tail perked sidewise like a fish frozen in the act of flipping; reared up on its landing gear with its little, radiatored nose crossed rakishly by the gravel-scarred propeller, that looked as though mice had nibbled the edges of its blades, it thrilled him as it had never thrilled him before.
It was his own, bought and paid for in money, and the sweat of long, toil-filled miles. It looked bigger in that niche than it had looked out on the desert with nothing but the immensity of earth and sky to measure it by. It looked bigger, more powerful—a mechanical miracle which still seemed more dream than reality. And it was his, absolutely the sole property of Johnny Jewel, who had retrieved it from a foreign country—his prize.
“Boy! I sure do wish she was ready to take the air,” Johnny said under his breath to Sandy, who merely threw up his head and stared at the thing with sophisticated disapproval.
Johnny got down and went up to it, laid a hand on the propeller, where its varnish was still smooth. Through a rift in the rock wall a bright yellow beam of sunlight slid kindly along the padded rim of the pilot’s pit; touched Johnny’s face, too, in passing.
Johnny sighed, stood back and looked long at the whole great sweep of the planes, pulled the smile out of his lips and went back to the cabin. He wouldn’t have time to work on her today, he told himself very firmly. He would have to ride the fences like a son-of-a-gun to make up for lost time. And look over the horses, too, and ride past that boggy place in the willows. It would keep him on the jump until sundown. He wouldn’t even have a chance to go over his lessons and blue prints, to see just what he’d have to send for to repair the plane. He didn’t even know the name of some of the parts, he confessed to himself.
He hated to leave the place unguarded while he made his long tour of the fence and the range within. He did not trust the brother of Tomaso, who had been too easily jewed down in his price, Johnny thought. He believed old Sudden was right in having nothing to do with Mexicans, in forbidding them free access to his domain. Johnny thought it would be a good idea to do likewise. Tomaso was to bring back the pliers, hammer, and whatever other tools they had taken, but after that they would have to keep off. He would tell Tomaso so very plainly. The prejudices of the Rolling R were well enough known to need no explanation, surely.
So Johnny ate a hurried breakfast, caught his fresh horse out of the pasture, and rode off to do in one day enough work to atone for the two he had filched from the Rolling R. He covered a good deal of ground, so far as that went. He rode to the very spot where fifteen Rolling R horses had been driven through the fence and across the border, but since his thoughts were given to the fine art of repairing a somewhat battered airplane, he did not observe where the staples had been pulled from three posts, the wires laid flat and weighted down with rocks, so that the horses and several horsemen could pass, and the wires afterward fastened in place with new staples. It is true that the signs were not glaring, yet he might have noticed that the wires there were nailed too high on the posts. And if he had noticed that, he could not have failed to see where the old staples had been drawn and new ones substituted. The significance of that would have pried Johnny’s mind loose from even so fascinating a subject as the amount of fabric and “dope” he would need to buy, and what would be their probable cost, “laid down” in Agua Dulce, which was the nearest railroad point.
As it was, he rode over tracks and traces and bits of sinister evidence here and there, and because the fence did not lie flat on the ground, and because many horses were scattered in the creek bottom and the draws and dry arroyos, he returned to camp satisfied that all was well on the Sinkhole range. He passed the cabin by and headed straight for his secret hangar, gloated and touched and patted and planned until the shadows crept in so thick he could not see, and then remembered how hungry he was. He returned to the cabin, turned his tired horse loose in the pasture, with Sandy standing disconsolately beside the wire gate, his haltered head drooping in the dusk and his mind visioning heat and sand and sweaty saddle blankets for the morrow.
Dark had painted out the opal tints of the afterglow. The desert lay quiet, empty, lonesome under the first stars. Johnny’s eyes strained to see the ridge that held close his treasure. He had a nervous fear that something might happen to it in the night, and he fought a desire to take his blankets and sleep over there in that niche. Tomaso’s brother knew where it was, and the Mexican who had driven the mules that hauled it there. What if they tried to steal it, or something?
That night, before he went to bed, he saddled Sandy and rode over to make sure that the airplane was still there. He carried a lantern because he feared the moon would not shine in where it was. It was there, just as he had placed it, but Johnny could not convince himself that it was safe. He had an uneasy feeling that thieves were abroad that night, and he stayed on guard for an hour or more before he finally consoled himself with the remembrance of the difficulties to be surmounted before even the most persistent of thieves could despoil him.
After that he rode back to the cabin and studied his blue prints and his typed lessons, and made a tentative list of the materials for repairs, and hunted diligently through certain magazine advertisements, hoping to find some firm to which he might logically address the order.
Obstacles loomed large in the path of research. The Instructions for Repairing an Airplane (Lesson XVII) were vague as to costs and quantities and such details, and Johnny’s judgment and experience were even more vague than the instructions. He gnawed all the rubber off his pencil before he hit upon the happy expedient of sending a check for all he could afford to spend for repairs, explaining just what damage had been wrought to his plane, and casting himself upon the experience, honesty and mercy of the supply house. Remained only the problem of discovering the name and address of the firm to be so trusted, but that took him far past midnight.
He was just finishing his somewhat lengthy letter of explanations and directions and a passable diagram of the impertinent twist t
o the tail of his machine. The moon was up, wallowing through a bank of clouds that made weird shadows on the plain, sweeping across greasewood and sage and barren sand like great, ungainly troops of horsemen; filling the arroyos and the little, deep washes with inky blackness.
Up from one deep washout a close-gathered troop of shadows came thrusting forward toward the lighter slope beyond. These did not travel in one easterly direction as did those other scudding, wind-driven night wraiths. They climbed straight across the wind to a bare level which they crossed, then swerved to the north, dipped into a black hollow and emerged, swinging back toward the south. A mile away a light twinkled steadily—the light before which Johnny Jewel was bending his brown, deeply cogitating head while he drew carefully the sketch of his new airplane’s tail, using the back of a steel table knife for a rule and guessing at the general proportions.
“Midnight an’ after—and he’s still up and at it,” chuckled one of the dim shapes, waving an arm toward the light. “Must a took it into the shack with ’m!”
Another one laughed rather loudly. Too loudly for a thief who did not feel perfectly secure in his thieving.
“Betcher we c’ud taken his saddle hoss out the pen an’ ride ’im off, and he wouldn’t miss ’im till he jest happened to look down and see where his boots was wore through the bottom hoofin’ it!” continued the speaker contentedly. “Me, I wisht we c’d git hold of some of them bronks they’re bustin’ now at the ranch. Tex was tellin’ me they’s shore some good ones.”
“What’s the good of wishin’?” a man behind him growled. “We ain’t doing so worse.”
“No—but broke hosses beats broomtails. Ain’t no harm in wishin’ they’d turn loose and bust some for us; save us that much work.”
The one who had laughed broke again into a high cackle. “What we’d oughta do,” he chortled, “is send ’em word to hereafter turn in lead ropes with every hoss we take off ’n their hands. And by rights we’d oughta stip-ilate that all hosses must be broke to lead. It ain’t right—them a gentlin’ down everything that goes to army buyers, and us, here, havin’ to take what we can git. It ain’t right!”
“The kid, he’ll maybe help us out on that there. I wisht Sudden’d take a notion to turn ’em all over to this-here sky-ridin’ fool—”
And the “sky-ridin’ fool,” at that moment carefully reading his order over the third time, honestly believed that he was watching over the interests of the Rolling R, and was respected and would presently be envied by all who heard his name. I wish he could have heard those night-riders talking about him, jeering even at the Rolling R for trusting him to guard their property. This chapter would have ended with a glorious fight out there under the moon, because Johnny would not have stopped to count noses before he started in on them.
But even though horse thieves are riding boldly and laughing as they ride, you cannot expect the bullets to fly when honest men have not yet discovered that they are being robbed. Johnny never dreamed that duty called him out on the range that night. He went to bed with his brain a whirligig in which airplanes revolved dizzily, and the marauders rode unhindered to wherever they were going. Thus do dramatic possibilities go to waste in real life.
CHAPTER TWELVE
JOHNNY’S AMAZING RUN OF LUCK STILL HOLDS ITS PACE
On the shady side of the depot at Agua Dulce, Johnny sat himself down on a truck whose iron parts were still hot from the sun that had lately shone full upon it. With lips puckered into a soundless whistle, and fingers that trembled a little with eagerness, he proceeded to unwrap one of the parcels he had just taken from the express office. On another truck that had stood longer in the shade, a young tramp in greasy overalls and cap inhaled the last precious wisps of smoke from a cigarette burned down to an inch of stub, and watched Johnny with a glum kind of speculation. Johnny sensed his presence and the speculative interest, and read the latter as the preparation for a “touch.” And Johnny was not feeling particularly charitable after having to pay a seven-dollar C.O.D. besides the express charges. He showed all the interest he felt in his packages and refused to encourage the hobo by so much as a glance.
He examined the slender ribs, bending them and slipping them through his fingers with the pleasurable feeling that he was inspecting and testing as an expert would have done. He read the label on a tin of “dope,” unwrapped a coil of wire cable and felt it, went at a parcel of unbleached linen, found the end and held a corner up to the light and squinted at it with his head perked sidewise.
Whereupon the hobo gave a limber twist of his lank body that inclined him closer to Johnny. “Say, if it’s any of my business, how much did Abe Smith tax yuh for that linen?” His tone was languid, tinged with a chronic resentment against circumstance.
Johnny turned a startled stare upon him, seemed on the point of telling him that it was not any of his business, and with the next breath yielded to his hunger for speech with a human being, however lowly, whose intelligence was able to grasp so exalted a subject as aircraft.
“Dunno yet—I’ll have to look it up on the bill,” he said with a cheerful indifference that implied long familiarity with such matters.
“Looks to me like some of the same lot he stung me with last fall, is why I asked. Abe will sting you every time the clock ticks. Why don’t yuh send to the Pacific Supply Company? They’re real people. Got better stuff, and they’ll treat you right whether you send or go yourself. Take it from me, bo, when you trade with Abe Smith you want a cop along.”
Johnny fingered the linen, his face gone sober. “I told him to send the best he had in stock,” he said.
“Well, maybe he done it, at that,” the hobo conceded. “His stock’s rotten, that’s all.”
“I was looking the bunch over so I could shoot it back to him if it wasn’t all right,” Johnny explained with dignity. “They sure can’t work off any punk stuff on me, not if I know it.”
The hobo flipped his cigarette stub into the sand and stared out across the depressing huddle of adobe huts and raw, double-roofed shacks that comprised Agua Dulce. His pale eyes blinked at the glare, his mouth drooped sourly at the corners.
“Believe me, bo, if you’re stranded in this hole with a busted plane, yuh better not take on any contract of arguing with Abe Smith. He’ll stall yuh off till you forget how to fly.” He turned his pale stare to Johnny with a new interest. “You aren’t making a transcontinental, are you?”
“Well—n-no. Not yet, anyway. I—live here.” You may not believe it, but Johnny was beginning to feel apologetic—and before a hobo, of all men.
“The deuce you do!” The tramp hitched himself up on another vertebra of his limp spine. “Why, I thought you were probably just making a cross-country flight, and had a wreck. I was going to bone yuh for a lift, in case you were alone. You live here! Why, for cat’s sake?”
“Gawd knows,” said Johnny. Then added impulsively, “I don’t expect to go on living here always. I’m going to beat it, soon as I get my airplane repaired, and—” He was on the point of saying, “when I learn to fly it.” But pride and his experience with the Rolling R boys checked him in time.
The hobo looked hungrily at the “makin’s” Johnny was pulling from the pocket of his shirt. “At that you’re lucky,” he said. “Having a plane to repair. Mine’s junk, and I’m just outa the hospital myself. I was a fool to ever go east, anyway. They are sure a cold proposition, believe me. Long as you’re lousy with money, and making pretty flights, you’re all right. But let bad luck hit yuh once—say, they don’t know you any more a-tall. I was doing fine on the Coast, too, but a fellow’s never satisfied with what he’s got. The game looked bigger back East, and I went. Now look at me! Bumming my way back when I planned to make a record flight! Kicked off the train in this flyspeck on the desert; nothing to eat since yesterday, not even a smoke left on me, nor the price of one!” He accepted with a nod the tobacco and papers Johnny held out to him, and proceeded languidly to roll a cigarette.
“Down to straight bumming—when I ought to be making my little old thousand dollars a flight. Maybe you’ve kept in touch with things on the Coast. I’m known there, well enough. Bland Halliday’s my name. Here’s my pilot’s license—about all them sharks didn’t pry off me in the hospital! I sure do wish I had of let well enough alone! But no, I had to go get gay with myself and try and beat a sure thing.”
Johnny was gazing reverently upon the pilot’s license which he held in his hand, and he did not hear the last two or three sentences of the hobo’s lament. He was busy breaking one of the ten commandments; the one which says, “Thou shalt not covet.” That he had never heard of Bland Halliday did not disturb him, for in Arizona’s wide spaces one does not hear of all that goes on in the world. He was sufficiently impressed by the license and what it implied, and he was thinking very fast. Here was a man, down on his luck it is true, but a man who actually knew how to fly; a fellow who spoke of Smith Brothers Supply Factory with the contempt of familiarity; a fellow who had used some of the very same linen.
Johnny Jewel forgot his pose of expert aviator. He forgot that Bland Halliday was absolutely unknown to him and that his personality was not altogether prepossessing. As a rule Johnny did not like pale eyes that seemed always to wear a veiled, opaque look. Heretofore he had not liked those new-fangled little mustaches which the Rolling R boys had dubbed slipped eyebrows. And ordinarily he would have objected to a mouth drawn at the corners in a permanent whine. To offset these objectionable features there were the greasy, brown overalls and the cap which certainly looked bird-mannish enough for any one, and there was the pilot’s license—no fake about that—and the fact that the fellow had known all about Abe Smith and the linen.
Johnny threw away his cigarette and his caution together. “Say, I might be able to take you to Los Angeles, all right—provided you will take a hand on the little old boat and help me put her in shape again. It oughtn’t to take long, if we go right after it. I—er—to tell the truth, it’s hard to get hold of any one around here that knows anything about it. Why, I had one fellow working for me, Mr. Halliday, and just for a josh I asked him where the fuselage was. And he went hunting all over the place and finally brought me a monkey wrench! He—”