“Only he has,” Johnny rounded out the sentence dryly.  “All right.  I’m willing to play that way till I find out more about you.  We’ll try your scheme out.  It can’t do any hurt.”

He went off to the shed where all sorts of things were stored, looking for lamp black.  And Bland, seeing ready money just ahead, overlooked Johnny’s blunt distrust of him, and pulled the corners of his mouth out of their habitual whining droop and whistled to himself while he tinkered with the motor.

Johnny was up on a stepladder laboriously painting the R on THUNDER when old Sudden drove into the yard with half the Rolling R boys packed into the big car.  They had heard the strident humming of the plane when Johnny made his homing flight, and craning necks backward, had seen him winging away to the Rolling R. They had guessed very close to the truth, and for them the search ended right there.  So, after signalling the other searchers, many of the boys had ridden back in the car, leaving patient, obliging little Curley to bring home their horses.

Bud and Aleck, who had ridden uncomplainingly from dawn to dark, looking for Johnny’s remains, straightway pulled him, paint-pot and all, from the stepladder and began to maul him affectionately and call him various names to hide their joy and relief.  Which Johnny accepted philosophically and with less gratitude than he should have shown.

“What yo’ all doin’, up there?” Bud wanted to know when the first excitement had subsided.  “Writin’ poetry for friend Venus to read?  I’ll bet that there’s where Skyrider has been all this while!  I’ll bet he’s been visitin’ with Venus and brandin’ stars with the Rollin’ R whilst we been ridin’ the tails off our hawses huntin’ his mangled ree-mains.  Ain’t that right, Eyebrow?”

Bland grinned sourly.  “Us, we been gawdin’ amongst the Injuns,” he stated loftily.  “We sure had some time.  I’ll say we did!  Say, we’re goin’ to be ready to do business now pretty quick.  Don’t you birds want to fly?  Just a little ways—­to see how it feels?”

Halfway up the stepladder Johnny stopped.  “What’s the matter with you, Bland?” he asked sharply.  “You crazy?”

“We’re out to do business.  That’s right, boys.  Now’s your time to fly.  All it takes is a little nerve—­and ten dollars.”

“Shut up!” growled Johnny.  “Don’t be a darned boob.”

The boys looked at one another uncertainly.  It might be some obscure joke of Bland’s, and they were wary.

“Fly where?” Bud guardedly sought information.

“Anywheres.  Just a circle or two, to show yuh how this ranch looks to a chicken hawk, and down again,” Bland persisted, in spite of Johnny.

“Yeah—­it’s that down again I wouldn’t much hanker for,” Aleck put in.  “I seen how you and Skyrider come down, once.”

“That there was him learnin’ not to pick nice, deep, soft sand for a landin’,” Bland explained equably, glancing up to where Johnny was painting a somewhat wobbly B.  “He ain’t done it lately, bo.”