Getting Schwab was absurdly simple, just as Johnny had felt sure it would be.  He flew to where he would be expected to cross the line had he come from Los Angeles.  Schwab would be impatient, anxious to get in his fingers the money Cliff was supposed to bring.  He did not wait at the house, but came out to meet the Thunder Bird.  Johnny had been sure that he would do that very thing.

To keep the nose of the Thunder Bird toward Schwab so that he could not see that only one man returned with her was simple.  Until he was close Schwab did not suspect that Cliff was not along.  Even then he was not suspicious, but came hurrying up to know why Johnny came alone.  Schwab wanted that money—­they always do.

“Where’s my man?” he demanded of Johnny, who had brought the landing gear against an old fence post used to block the wheels, and shut the motor off as much as he could and keep it running.

“Your man is sick.”  Which was true enough; Cliff was a very sick man that morning.  “You’ll have to come to him.  Get in—­it won’t take long.”

Schwab hung back a little, not from fear of Johnny but because he had no stomach for flying.  “Well, but didn’t he send—­”

“He didn’t send a darned thing but me.  He wouldn’t trust me to bring anything else.  Get in.  I’m in a hurry.”

“What’s the matter with him?  He was all right last night.”  Still Schwab hung back.  “I’ll wait until he can come.  I—­I can’t leave.”

Then he found himself looking up into the barrel of Johnny’s six-shooter.  “I was told to bring you back with me.  Get in, I said.”

“This is some trick!  I—­”

“You get—­in!”

So Schwab climbed in awkwardly, his face mottled and flabby with fear of the Thunder Bird.

“Fasten that strap around you—­be sure it’s fast.  And put on this cap and goggles if you like.  And sit still.”  Then he called to the languid Mexican who was idly watching him from afar.  “Hey!  Come and pull the block away from the wheels.”

The Mexican came trotting, the silver of the night before clinking in his overalls pocket.  Grinning hopefully, he picked up the post and carried it to one side.  But Johnny was not thinking then of tips.  He let in the motor until the Thunder Bird went teetering around in a wide half circle and scudded down the level stretch, taking the air easily.

“This is an outrage!” Schwab shouted.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Oh, up in the air a ways,” Johnny told him, but the roar of the motor so filled Schwab’s unaccustomed ears that he could hear nothing else.  And presently his mind became engrossed with something more immediately vital than was his destination.

They were getting too high up, he shouted.  Johnny must come down at once—­or if he would not do that, at least he must fly lower.  Did Johnny mean to commit suicide?

For answer Johnny grinned and went higher, and the face of Schwab became not mottled but a sickly white.  He sat gripping the edges of the cockpit and gazing fearfully downward, save when he turned to implore, threaten, and command.  He would report Johnny to his employers.  He could make him sorry for this.  He would make it worth his while to land.  He would do great things for Johnny—­he would make him rich.