"For cat's sake, is this the only way of getting to your camp?" he gasped, when Johnny and the bronk mercifully slowed to climb a steep arroyo bank. "Unless yuh fly," Johnny assured him happily, hugging the thought that, however awkward he might be when he first essayed to fly, it would be humanly impossible to surpass the awkwardness of Bland Halliday in the saddle. "Believe me, bo, we'll fly, then, if I have to _build_ a plane!" Halliday let go the saddle horn just long enough to draw the back of his grimy wrist across his perspiring face. "And I've heard folks claim they _liked_ to ride on a horse!" he added perplexedly. Johnny grinned and turned off the road to ride straight across the country. It would be rough going for the aviator, but it would shorten the journey ten or twelve miles, which meant a good deal to Johnny's peace of mind. He did not feel it necessary to inform his expert assistant that Sinkhole Camp was accessible to wagons, carts, buckboards--automobiles, even, if one was lucky in dodging rocks, and the tires held out. It had occurred to him that it might be very good policy to make this a trip of unpleasant memories for Bland Halliday. He would work on that plane with more interest in the job. The alternative of a ticket and "eating money" to Los Angeles had been altogether too easy, Johnny thought. There should be certain obstacles placed between Sinkhole and the ticket. So he placed them there with a thoroughness that lathered the horses, tough as they were. Johnny Jewel knew his Arizona--let it go at that. "Say, bo, do we have to ride down in there?" came a wail from behind when Johnny's horse paused to choose the likeliest place to jump off a three-foot rim of rock that fenced a deep gash. "Yep--ride or fly. Why? This ain't bad," Johnny chirped, never looking around. "Honest to Pete, I'm ready to croak right now! I can loop and I can write my initials in fire on a still night--but damned if I do a nose-dive with nothing but a horse under me. He--his control's on the blink! He don't balance to suit me. Aw, say! Lemme walk! Honest--" "And get snake-bit?" Johnny glanced back and waved his hand airily just as his horse went over like a cat jumping off a fence. "Come on! Let your horse have his head. He'll make it." "Me? I ain't got his head! Sa-ay, where's--" He trailed off into a mumble, speaking always from the viewpoint of a flyer. Johnny, listening while he led the way down a blind trail to the bottom, caught a word now and then and decided that Bland Halliday must surely be what he claimed to be, or he would choose different terms for his troubles. He would not, for instance, be wondering all the while what would happen if Sandy did a side-slip; nor would he have openly feared a "pancake" at the landing.