that struck him oddly.  The creek might be a continuation of Sinkhole Creek, that disappeared into the sands away back there near his camp.  There was nothing particularly strange about that, or the green growth that water made possible wherever the soil held latent fertility.  It was the fact that those poor devils who lost the airplane—­and themselves—­should have wandered on and on, crazed with hunger and thirst when food and water and perhaps a guide were to be found within a mile or so of where they landed.

It was a pity, thought Johnny.  But, being very human, he also thought that if the airmen had found this place, that plane would not be sitting back there waiting his grave if inexpert inspection.  So with his pity cooled a little with self-interest, Johnny turned the puffing Sandy upon the backward trail and followed his tracks across the apparently level stretch of barrenness to the basin where waited the plane and Tomaso’s brother.  Only for Sandy’s tracks, Johnny knew he might have had a little trouble in finding the place again, the country looked so unbroken and monotonous.

However, he found it too soon for Sandy’s comfort.  There it sat—­the giant bird that had seemed ready to swoop and rise.  But now its back was turned toward him, and it did not look quite so fearsome.  He circled and plunged awhile, and even made shift to pitch a little, tired as he was.  But man’s mastery prevailed, just as it had always done, and Sandy found himself edging closer and closer to the thing.  The horse of Tomaso’s brother, standing quiet in the very shade of a great wing, reassured him further, so that presently he stood subdued but wall-eyed still, where Johnny could dismount and hand the reins to the brother of Tomaso while he examined the prize.

His manner was impressive, and the brother of Tomaso stopped grinning to himself and began to look somewhat worried.  He watched Johnny’s face—­and I assure you that Johnny’s face would have been worth any one’s watching.  A cigarette slanted from the corner of his boyish lips, and the eye on that side was squinted to keep out the smoke; which was merely an impressive bit of byplay, because there was no smoke.  The cigarette was not burning, though Johnny had made a hasty dab at it with a lighted match.  The other eye was as coldly critical as was humanly possible when the whole heart of Johnny was swelling with ecstasy.  His head was tilted a little, his hands were on his hips except when he used them to push and test and try some reachable part.

Johnny thrust out a foot and gently kicked the flattened tire on one wheel.  “Umh-humh,” he muttered to himself.  “Flat tire.”  Never in his life had Johnny enjoyed the privilege of kicking a wheel on the landing gear of an airplane, but you would have thought that this was his business, and that it bored him intensely to do so.  He took one hand off his hip long enough to lift the drooping wing that canted toward the south.  “Mhm-hmh—­busted skid,” he observed, in a tone which, to the brother of Tomaso, shaved several dollars off the coveted fifty.  Close behind Johnny he stayed, following him around the plane in a secret agony of apprehension.