“By gosh, you had it coming!” Johnny muttered as he settled back into his seat.  He had never knocked a man cold before, and his natural soft-heartedness needed bracing.  He had let Cliff rave as long as he dared, dreading the alternative.  But now that it was done he felt a certain relief to have it over.  He could turn his mind wholly to the accomplishment of another feat which would take all his nerve.

That other thing had looked simple enough in contemplation, but the actual doing of it presented complications.  The simplicity of the plan vanished with the sighting of those two scouting planes that persisted in paralleling his course and herding him away from the line he fain would cross.

Tia Juana with its flat-roofed adobes lay ahead of him now, its lights twinkling like fallen stars.  Away off to the right he could see the blurred lights of San Diego and the phosphorescent gleam of the bay and ocean beyond.  Beautiful beyond words was the broad view he got, but its beauty could only vaguely impress him then, though he might later recall it wistfully.

He looked toward San Diego with longing; looked at the two planes that hounded him, then gazed straight ahead at the ocean.  Perhaps they would not follow him beyond their station at North Island.  They would maybe circle and come back, watching for his return, or they might keep to the shore line, flying north, and thinking to head him off when he turned inland.  At least, he reasoned, that is what he would do if he were following an outlaw plane and saw it head out over the ocean, straight for Honolulu.

So over Tia Juana he flew and made for the sea like a gull that has flown too far from its nesting place.  He watched and saw the two planes spiraling upward, climbing to a higher altitude where it would be easy to dart down at him if he swung north.  They suspected that trick, evidently, and were preparing to swoop and follow.

The beach, pale yellow in the moonlight, with a riffle of white at its edge, slid beneath him.  The ocean, heaving gently, rolled under, the moon reflected from its depths.

Cliff sat slumped down in his seat, his head tilted upon one shoulder.  He had not moved nor made a sound, and his limp silence began to worry Johnny.  What if he had struck too hard, had killed the man?  A little tremor went over him, a prickling of the scalp.  Killing Cliff had no part in his plans, would be too horrid a mischance.  He wished now that he had left him alone, had let him bluster and threaten.  Perhaps Cliff would not have had presence of mind enough to do what Johnny had feared he would do when he saw capture was inevitable:  drop overboard what papers he carried that would incriminate him with the United States Federal officers.  With empty pockets Cliff would be as free of suspicion as Johnny himself—­a mere passenger in a plane that had flown too far south.  He would then be fairly safe in assuming that Johnny would never dare to cross the line with him under the eye of those who watched from the sky.  It had been the fear of that ruse that had brought Johnny to the point of violence to Cliff’s person, but he was sorry now that he had not risked taking that chance.