“All right, Johnny, this is Mateo, who will look after us at this end—­providing there’s nothing to hinder our using this as headquarters.  How about that flat, out in front?  Is it big enough for a flying field, do you think?  You might walk over it and take a look.”

Stiffly, Johnny climbed down and walked obediently out across the open flat.  It was fairly smooth, though Mateo’s kids might well be set gathering rocks.  The hills encircled it, green where the rocks were not piled too ruggedly.  He inspected the great oak which Cliff had pointed out as a hiding place for the plane.  Truly it was a wonder of an oak tree.  Its trunk was gnarled and big as a hogshead, and it leaned away from the steep slope behind it so that its southern branches almost touched the ground.  These stretched farther than Johnny had dreamed a tree could stretch its branches, and screened completely the wide space beneath.  It was like a great tent, with the back wall lifted; since here the branches inclined upward, scraping the hillside with their tips.  The Thunder Bird could be wheeled around behind and under easily enough, and never seen from the front and sides.  It was so obviously perfect that Johnny wondered why Cliff should bother to consult him about it.  He wondered, too, how Cliff had found the place, how he had completed so quickly his plans to use it for the purpose.  It looked almost as though Cliff had expected him and had made ready for him though that could not be so, since not even Johnny himself had known that he was coming to the Coast so soon.  But to have the place all ready, with a man to take charge and all in a few hours, was an amazing accomplishment that filled Johnny with awe.  Cliff Lowell must be a wizard at news-gathering if his talents were to be measured by this particular achievement.

“Well, do you think it will serve?” Catlike, Cliff had come up behind him.

“Sure it will serve.  If you can think up some way to hide the track of the plane when it lands, it wouldn’t be found here in a thousand years.  But of course the marks will show—­”

“Just what kind of marks?”

“Well, the wheels themselves don’t leave much of a track, and the wind fills them quick, anyway.  But the drag digs in.  If you’ve ever been around a flying field you’ve noticed what looks like wheel-barrow tracks all over, haven’t you?  That’s something you can’t get away from, wherever you land.  Though of course some soil holds the mark worse than others.”

“That will be attended to.  Now I’ll show you just where this spot is on the map.”  He produced the folded map and opened it, kneeling on the ground to spread it flat.  “You see those twin peaks up there?  They are just here.  This is the valley, and right here is the cabin.  You might take this map and study it well.  You will have to fly high, to avoid observation, and land with as little manoeuvering as possible.  For ten or fifteen miles around here there is nothing but wilderness, fortunately.  The land is held in an immense tract—­and I happen to know the owners so that it will be only chance observers we need to fear.  You will need to choose your landing so that you can come down right here, close to the oak, and be able to get the machine under cover at once.  I’ll mark the spot—­just here, you see.