“Now, I shall have Mateo bring the blankets here under the tree.  I feel the need of a little sleep, myself.  How about you?  We start back at dark, by the way.”

“How about that duck hunting?”

“Ducks?  Oh, Mateo will hunt the ducks!” Cliff permitted himself a superior smile.  “We shall have sufficient outlet for any surplus energy without going duck hunting.  You had better turn in when I do.”

“No, I slept enough to do me, at a pinch.  If Mateo can get a horse, I want to ride up on this pinnacle and take a look-see over the country.  I can get the lay of things a whole lot better than goggling a month at your doggone maps.”

Cliff took a minute to think it over and gave a qualified consent.  “Don’t go far, and don’t talk to any one you may meet—­though there is no great chance of meeting any one.  I suppose,” he added grudgingly, “it will be a good idea for you to get the lay of the country in your mind.  Though the map can give you all you need to know, I should think.”

On a scrawny little sorrel that Mateo brought up from some hidden pasture where the feed was apparently short, Johnny departed, aware of Mateo’s curious, half-suspicious stare.  He had a full canteen from the car and a few ragged slices of bread wrapped in paper with a little boiled ham.  In spite of the fact that he had lately forsworn so tame a thing as riding, he was glad to be on a horse once more, though be wished it was a better animal.

He climbed the hill, zigzagging back and forth to make easier work for the pony, until he was high above the live-oak belt and coming into shale rock and rubble that made hard going for the horse.  He dismounted, led the pony to a shelving, rock-made shade, and tied him there.  Then, with canteen and food slung over his shoulder, Johnny climbed to the peak and sat down puffing on the shady side of one of the twin columns.

Seen close, they were huge, steeple-like outcroppings of rock, with soil-filled crevices that gave foothold for bushes.  In all the country around Johnny could see no other hilltop that in the least resembled this, so it did not seem to him likely that he would ever miss his way when he travelled the air lanes.

For awhile he sat gazing out over the country, which seemed a succession of green valleys, hidden from one another by high hills or wooded ridges.  Mexico lay before him, across the valley and a hill or two—­fifteen miles, Cliff Lowell had told him.  It would be extremely simple to fly straight toward this particular hill, circle, and land down there in front of the oak.  Cliff had spoken of risk, bat Johnny could not see much risk here.  It must be across the line, he thought.  Still, Cliff had said he had friends there, which did not sound like danger.  They had considered it worth fifteen hundred a week, though, to fly across these fifteen miles into Mexico and back again.  Johnny shook his head slowly, gave up the puzzle, and took out his wallet to count the money again.