Tex was not displaying any great genius when he edged the boys on to tease Johnny beyond the limit of that young man’s endurance, or when he tattled to Mary V a slighting remark about her ability as a poet. Tex was merely carrying out an idea which had come to him when he saw Johnny with his hands full of aircraft literature. If it worked, all right. If it didn’t work, Johnny would not be on the Rolling R pay roll any longer, but Tex would not have lost anything. It would be convenient to have Johnny down at Sinkhole Camp, shirking his job while he fiddled around with his flying bug. Tex believed he knew how he could keep the bug very active, and Johnny very much engrossed with it—down at Sinkhole Camp. It was simple enough, and worth the slight effort Tex was making.
So there was Johnny Jewel with his saddle and bridle and suitcase and chaps, waiting out by the mail box for the stage. And there came Sudden, driving back from the railroad—Tex knew he was expected back that forenoon—and reaching the gate before the stage had come in sight around the southwest spur of the ridge it could not cross. Sudden liked Johnny—and Tex knew that too. (Tex made it his business to know a good deal which had nothing to do with his legitimate work.) And good riders who did not get drunk every chance that offered were not to be hired every day in the week.
Johnny opened the gate, but Sudden did not drive through. He stopped and eyed the suitcase and the saddle and the chaps, and then he looked at Johnny.
“Too much song-bird stuff?” he asked, which showed how sensitive was the finger Sudden kept on the pulse of his outfit.
“I’ve got to work for a living, but I don’t have to work with that bunch of idiots,” Johnny stated with much dignity.
Sudden rubbed a gauntleted hand across the lower part of his face; and that, I think, is why Johnny saw himself taken as seriously as his young egotism demanded.
“Rather be by yourself, would you? Well, throw your baggage in the back of the car. I want you to catch up a couple of horses and go on down to Sinkhole. You won’t be annoyed down there with anybody’s foolishness but your own, young man. You’ll work for your living, all right! Got a gun? A rifle? Well, there’s one at the house you can take. There may not be any Rolling R horses going across the line—but it’ll be your business to know there aren’t. If you see a greaser prowling around, put him on the run. They’re paying good money for horses in Mexico, remember. You’re down there to see they don’t get ‘em too cheap on this side. Do you get that?”
“Yes, sir—you bet!”
“Oh. You do? Well, get in.”
At the corral he turned again to Johnny. “Stop at the house when you’re ready. There’s a pile of Modern Mechanics you may as well take along. You won’t have any too much time for reading, though—not if you work the way you rhyme.”
“Well, I hope I work better,” said Johnny, his spirits risen to where speech bubbled. “I get paid for my work—and I guess I’d starve writing poetry for a living.”
“Yes, I guess you would. Good thing you know it.” Sudden swung his machine around and drove into the garage, and Johnny, untying his rope from his saddle, went into the corral to catch two fairly gentle horses.
When he was ready he rode over to the bungalow, leading the gentlest horse packed with bedding roll, “war bag,” and a few odds and ends that Johnny wanted to take along. Sudden was waiting on the porch with a rifle, cartridge belt and two extra boxes of ammunition, and a sack half full of magazines. He stood with his hands in his pockets while Johnny tied rifle and sack on the saddle.
“Now I want you to understand, Johnny, that you’re going down there on special work,” he said, coming down the steps and standing close to the horse. “There’s a telephone, and that’s your protection if anything looks off-color. Keep the stock pushed back pretty well away from the line fences. There’s some good feed in those draws over east of Sinkhole creek. Let ‘em graze in there—but keep an eye out for rustlers. Get to know the bunches of horses and watch their moves. You’ll soon know whether they are being bothered. Pete leaves camp this afternoon. You’ll probably meet him.
“And this gun—well, you keep it right with you. I don’t want you to go around hunting trouble, but I want you to be ready for it if it comes. A horse looks awfully good to a greaser, remember. But no greaser likes the looks of a white man with a gun. Now let’s see how much brains you’ve got for the job, young man. If you see to it that no Rolling R stuff comes up missing, and do it without any trouble, I’ll call that making good.”
“All right, I’ll try and make good, then.” Johnny’s shoulders went back. “When a man’s got some object in life besides just earning a living, he—”
From within the house full-toned chords were struck from a piano. Johnny scowled, gave his packed horse a yank, and rode off. Couldn’t that girl ever let up on a fellow? Playing that darn fool tune over and over! It sure showed how much brains she had in her head! He hoped she’d get enough of it. If he was her mother or her father, he knew what he’d do with her and the whole outfit. He’d stand ‘em all up in a row and make ‘em sing that fool song till they were hoarse as calves on the fifth day of weaning. There was a time, too, when he had liked that girl. If she had shown any brains or feeling, he could have loved Mary V. Good thing he found out in time.
Johnny looked back from the gate and heaved a great sigh of relief at his narrow escape. Or was it regret? Johnny himself did not know, but he called it relief because that was the most comfortable emotion a young man may take away with him into desert loneliness.
Yes, sir, he was glad of the chance to stay at Sinkhole for awhile. He wouldn’t be pestered to death, and he would have plenty of time to study and read. He’d send for that correspondence course on aviation, and he’d get the theory of it all down pat, so that when he had enough money saved up to go into the thing right, all he would need would be the actual practice in the air. He should think he could go to some school and work his way along; get a little practice every day, and do repair work or something the rest of the time for nothing. A dollar a minute for learning was pretty steep, Johnny thought, but after all it was worth it. A dollar a minute—and four hundred minutes in the air for the average course!
Four hundred dollars, and only half that much saved. And then there would be his fare back east, and his board—Johnny wished that he might cut out eating, but he realized how healthy was his appetite. He counted three meals for every day, at an average of fifty cents for each meal. Well, even so, he could “ride the bumpers” to the school; take a side-door pullman; beat his way; hobo it—or whatever the initiated wanted to call it. He could send his suitcase on by express, and just wear old clothes—send his money on, too, for that matter. He could save quite a lot that way. Or maybe he could get Sudden to let him go back with cattle from the Gila River Ranch—only he wouldn’t ask any favors from any one by the name of Selmer. No, he’d be darned if he would! He’d just draw his wages, when he had enough saved, and drop out of sight. He wouldn’t even tell Curley where he was going. And then, some day—
There came the air castle again, floating alluringly before his eager imagination, like a mirage lake in the desert. Johnny’s eyes stared ahead through the shimmering heat waves—stared and saw not the monotonous neutral tints of sand and rock and gray sage and yellow weeds and the rutted, dusty trail that wound away across the desert. But Mary V’s face turned expectantly toward him from the crowd as he walked nonchalantly around his big tractor, testing every cable, inspecting the landing gear and the elevators and the—what-ye-may-call-‘ems—and then climbing in and trying out his control—and pulling down his goggles and settling his moleskin cap and all—and then nodding imperiously to his helper—not little Curley; he was not big enough to crank his powerful motor—but some big guy that had a reach like—
And then the buzz and the hum, and fellows braced against the wings to hold ‘er till he was ready to give the word! And the dust storm he kicked up behind—he hoped Mary