After Tomaso had mounted reluctantly and ridden away, however, Johnny discovered himself faced southward, staring off toward Mexico.  It was just a yarn, about that airplane over there.  Of course there was nothing in it—­nothing whatever.  He didn’t believe for a minute that an airplane was sitting like a hawk on the sands a few miles to the south of him.  He didn’t believe it—­but he pictured to himself just how it would look, and he played a little with the idea.  It was something new to think about, and Johnny straightway built himself a dream around it.

Riding the ridges in the lesser heat of the early mornings, his physical eyes looked out over the meager range, spying out the scattered horse herds grazing afar, their backs just showing above the brush.  Behind his eyes his mind roved farther, visioning a military plane sitting, inert but with potentialities that sent his mind dizzy, on the hot sand of Mexico—­so close that he could almost see the place where it sat.

This was splendid food for Johnny’s imagination, for his ambitions even, though it was not particularly good for the Rolling R. He was not bothered much.  Evenings, the foreman or Sudden would usually call him up and ask him how things were.  Johnny would say that everything was all right, and had the stage driver made a mistake and left any of his mail at the ranch?  Because he had been to the mail box on the trail and there was nothing there.  The speaker at the ranch would assure him that nothing had been left there for him, and the ceremony would be over.

Johnny was fussy about his mail.  He had spent twenty-five dollars for a correspondence course in aviation, and he wanted to begin studying.  He did not know how he could learn to fly by mail, but he was a trustful youth in some ways—­he left that for the school to solve for him.

Tomaso rode over again in a few days.  This time he had a mysterious looking kind of wrench in his pocket, and he showed it to Johnny with a glimmer of triumph.

“Me, I’m saw that thing what flies.  Only now it sets.  It’s got wheels in front—­little small wheels.  Dos—­two.  My brother, he’s show me.  I’m find thees wranch.  It’s got wings out, so.”  Tomaso spread his two arms.  “Some day, I’m think she’s fly.  When wind blows.”

Johnny felt a little tremor go over him, but he managed to laugh.  “All right; you’ve been looking at the pictures.  If you saw it, tell me about it.  What makes it go?”

Tomaso shook his head.  “She don’t go,” he said.  “She sets.”

“All right.  She sets, then.  What on,—­back of the wheels?  You said two wheels in front.  What holds up the back?”

“One small, little leg like my arm,” Tomaso answered unhesitatingly.  “Like my arm and my hand—­so.  Iron.”

Johnny’s eyes widened a trifle, but he would not yield.  “Well, where do men ride on it?  On which wing?”