Trudging through the snow, now two feet deep, in ever widening circles, Blanchfield, after five hours of walking, finally stumbled upon a little shack built in the side of a hill. At his knock the door opened a trifle, and the black, beady eyes of a patriarchal old Indian met his. But at the sight of this grotesque, snow-covered figure, with its goggles and helmet, the wrinkled old redskin slammed the door. He had never before seen a pilot in flying accoutrement, and he was taking no chances. With the fury of the gale almost drowning out his voice, Blanchfield tried for half an hour to persuade the wily old Indian to open the door. Firmly grasping his rifle, the aborigine eventually unlocked the door, and stepped backward before the pilot’s advance, meanwhile motioning him with the barrel toward a primitive fireplace. Divesting himself of his entire flying outfit, Blanchfield stood before the Indian, an ordinary white man such as he had seen in the hills, and not some sort of devil. But the pilot’s command of the Indian and sign languages was inadequate, and the Indian was hard to convince. Didn’t this wizened old redskin see these “sky-devils” flying over the desert almost every day? Their throbbing motors must be filled with ‘bad medicine,’ for they flew through the air faster than the birds. No; he would stand there with his rifle until this stranger from another world warmed and fed himself, then he would send him forth. Fortunately for the pilot, an old prospector who knew the Indian happened along at this juncture, and explained the situation in pidgin English. Blanchfield now visualized the two of them helping him “turn over” his ten-foot propeller, ordinarily a task for three men. The storm had abated somewhat, and the three set forth, Blanchfield explaining his predicament as they went along. But when the Indian came within a hundred yards of the stranded ship, he stopped, and would go no farther. Nor would the grizzled prospector. ‘Sky devil no good’ was all the old redskin would say. So it fell to Blanchfield’s lot to turn over the propeller himself. Plowing through the snow, now almost two feet deep, with his heavy balloon-tired wheels, the pilot finally succeeded in urging his “bus” into the air, and arrived at the Reno field late that afternoon.