The Thunder Bird flew high, with a steady air current behind which gave the plane more speed than Johnny had hoped for, and brought them close to Yuma before the gas gauge began to worry him.  They descended cautiously, circled over the town like a wild duck over a pond, choosing their landing.  They alighted without mishap and Johnny hired a decent-looking Mexican to watch the plane and protect it from curious meddlers while he and Bland went into town and ate their fill, and bought gas and oil to be delivered immediately.  Before the town had fairly awakened to the fact that an airplane had descended in its immediate vicinity, they were off again, climbing once more to the high air lanes that made smoother going.

The motor worked smoothly, the hand of the tachometer wavering around twelve hundred, and the altometer registering nine thousand feet, save when they dipped and lifted to the uneven currents over the mountains.  The Thunder Bird seemed alive, glorying in her native element.  The earth slid away like a map unrolled endlessly beneath them.  Desert and little towns on the railroad like broken beads strung loosely on a taut wire.  Salton Sea was cool and tempting, though the air shimmered all around it with heat.  They flew the full length of it and on up the valley.  Then they climbed higher and so breasted the currents flowing over the San Jacintos.  And over a little town set in level country they wheeled, descending and searching for a field.  Again they landed and filled their gas tank and went on.  Always it was the distance ahead that called them.  Always they grudged the minutes lost, as though they were racing against time and the stakes were high.

After the last stop, exaltation seized Johnny and lifted him high above the sordid things of earth.  Trouble dropped away from him; rather, it was left behind as he flew toward the sunset, He lost the sense of weight that clogs the bodies of human creatures plodding over the earth’s uneven surface and became as an eagle, soaring high on wings that never tired.  Never before had he remained so long in flight, wherefore he had never attained so completely that birdlike feeling of mastery in the air.  Falling seemed impossible; as easily could his senses have visualized falling through the earth in the old days of crawling.  There was no earth.  There was only a sliding relief map far below to guide him in his triumphant flight.  Tucson, the Rolling R—­they were clouds that hovered far back on the horizon of his mind.  Mary V was a dim vision that came and went but never quite took definite form.  The roar of the motor he had long ceased to hear.  Godlike he floated with wings outspread, straight into the sunset.

The sliding map below took on strange, beautiful colors of purple and gold and rose, with sometimes a wonderful blending of all.  Before him the sky was a gorgeous, piled radiance.  The earth colors changed, softened, deepened to a mysterious shadowy expanse, with here and there a brightness where the sun touched a hilltop.