"MY JOB'S FLYING"
The stopping of the motor wakened him finally, and he sat up,
stretching his arms and yawning prodigiously. His legs were cramped,
his neck was stiff, he was conscious of great emptiness. By the stars
he knew that it was well toward morning. Hills bulked in the distance,
with dark blobs here and there which daylight later identified as live
oaks. Cliff was climbing out, and at the sound of Johnny's yawn he
turned.
"We'll camp here, I think. There's no road from here on, and I rather
want daylight. Perhaps then we will decide not to go on. How would a
cup of coffee suit you? I can get out enough plunder for a meal."
"I can sure do the rest," Johnny cheerfully declared. "Cook it and eat
it too. Where's there any water?"
"There's a creek over here a few yards. I'll get a bucket." With his
trouble-light suspended from the top of the car, Cliff moved a roll of
blankets and a bag that had jolted out of place. In a moment he had
all the necessary implements of an emergency camp, and was pulling out
cans and boxes of supplies that opened Johnny's eyes. Evidently Cliff
had come prepared to camp for some time.
Over coffee and bacon and bread Johnny learned some things he had
wanted to know. They were in the heart of the country which Cliff had
shown him on the relief map, miles from the beaten trail of tourists,
but within fifteen miles of the border.
"There's a cabin somewhere near here that we can use for headquarters,"
Cliff further explained. "And to-day a Mexican will come and take
charge of camp and look after our interests while we are over the line.
I have ordered a quantity of gas that will be brought here and stored
in a safe place, and there is a shelter for the plane. I merely want
you to look over the ground, make sure of the landing possibilities,
and fix certain landmarks in your mind so that you can drop down here
without making any mistake as to the spot. When that is done we will
return and bring your airplane over. It is only about a hundred and
forty miles from Los Angeles, air line. You can make that easily
enough, I suppose?"
"I don't see why not. A hundred and forty miles ain't far, when you're
lined out and flying straight for where you're going."
"No. Well, one step at a time. We'll just repack this, so that we can
move on to the cabin as soon as it's light enough. I don't think it
can be far."
Daylight came and showed them that the cabin was no more than a long
pistol shot away. Johnny looked at Cliff queerly. City man he might
be--city man he certainly looked and acted and talked, but he did not
appear to rely altogether upon signposts and street-corner labels to
show him his way about. Just who and what was the fellow, anyway?
Something more than a high-class newspaper man, Johnny suspected.
That cabin, for instance, might have been built and the surroundings
ordered to suit their purpose. It was a commonplace cabin, set against
a hill rock-hewn and rugged, with a queer, double-pointed top like twin
steeples tumbled by an earthquake; or like two "sheep herders'
monuments" built painstakingly by giants. The lower slope of the hill
was grassy, with scattered live oaks and here and there a huge bowlder.
It was one of these live oaks, the biggest of them all, with
wide-spreading branches drooping almost to the ground, that Cliff
pointed out as an excellent concealment for an airplane.
"Run it under there, and who would ever suspect? Mateo is there
already with his woman and the kiddies. Has it ever occurred to you,
old man, how thoroughly disarming a woman and kiddies are in any
enterprise that requires secrecy?"
"Can't say it has. It has occurred to me that kids are the limit for
blabbing things. And women--"
"Not these," Cliff smiled serenely. "These are trained kiddies. They
do their blabbing at home, you'll find. They're better than dogs, to
give warning of strangers prowling about."
He must have meant during the day they were better than dogs. They
drove up to the cabin, swung around the end and turned under a live oak
whose branches scraped the car's top, while four dogs circled the
machine, barking and growling. Still no kiddies appeared, but their
father came out of a back door and drove the dogs back. He was
low-browed, swart and silent, with a heavy black mustache and a mop of
hair to match. Cliff left the car and walked away with him, speaking
in an undertone what Johnny knew to be Spanish. The low-browed one
interpolated an occasional "Si, si, senor!" and gesticulated much.
"All right, Johnny, this is Mateo, who will look after us at this
end--providing there's nothing to hinder our using this as
headquarters. How about that flat, out in front? Is it big enough for
a flying field, do you think? You might walk over it and take a look."
Stiffly, Johnny climbed down and walked obediently out across the open
flat. It was fairly smooth, though Mateo's kids might well be set
gathering rocks. The hills encircled it, green where the rocks were
not piled too ruggedly. He inspected the great oak which Cliff had
pointed out as a hiding place for the plane. Truly it was a wonder of
an oak tree. Its trunk was gnarled and big as a hogshead, and it
leaned away from the steep slope behind it so that its southern
branches almost touched the ground. These stretched farther than
Johnny had dreamed a tree could stretch its branches, and screened
completely the wide space beneath. It was like a great tent, with the
back wall lifted; since here the branches inclined upward, scraping the
hillside with their tips. The Thunder Bird could be wheeled around
behind and under easily enough, and never seen from the front and
sides. It was so obviously perfect that Johnny wondered why Cliff
should bother to consult him about it. He wondered, too, how Cliff had
found the place, how he had completed so quickly his plans to use it
for the purpose. It looked almost as though Cliff had expected him and
had made ready for him though that could not be so, since not even
Johnny himself had known that he was coming to the Coast so soon. But
to have the place all ready, with a man to take charge and all in a few
hours, was an amazing accomplishment that filled Johnny with awe.
Cliff Lowell must be a wizard at news-gathering if his talents were to
be measured by this particular achievement.
"Well, do you think it will serve?" Catlike, Cliff had come up behind
him.
"Sure it will serve. If you can think up some way to hide the track of
the plane when it lands, it wouldn't be found here in a thousand years.
But of course the marks will show--"
"Just what kind of marks?"
"Well, the wheels themselves don't leave much of a track, and the wind
fills them quick, anyway. But the drag digs in. If you've ever been
around a flying field you've noticed what looks like wheel-barrow
tracks all over, haven't you? That's something you can't get away
from, wherever you land. Though of course some soil holds the mark
worse than others."
"That will be attended to. Now I'll show you just where this spot is
on the map." He produced the folded map and opened it, kneeling on the
ground to spread it flat. "You see those twin peaks up there? They
are just here. This is the valley, and right here is the cabin. You
might take this map and study it well. You will have to fly high, to
avoid observation, and land with as little manoeuvering as possible.
For ten or fifteen miles around here there is nothing but wilderness,
fortunately. The land is held in an immense tract--and I happen to
know the owners so that it will be only chance observers we need to
fear. You will need to choose your landing so that you can come down
right here, close to the oak, and be able to get the machine under
cover at once. I'll mark the spot--just here, you see.
"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.
Half an hour he spent, fingering those bank notes, gloating over them,
wondering what Mary V would say if she knew he had them, wishing he had
another fifteen hundred, so he could pay old Sudden and be done with
it. An unpleasant thought came to him and nagged at him, though he
tried to push it from him; the thought that it would be Sudden's
security that he would be risking--that the Thunder Bird was not really
his until he had paid that note.
The thought troubled him. He got up and moved restlessly along the
base of the towering rock, when something whined past his ear and
spatted against a bowlder beyond. Johnny did not think; he acted
instinctively, dropping as though he had been shot and lying there
until he had time to plan his next move. He had not been raised in gun
smoke, but nevertheless he knew a bullet when he heard it, and he did
not think himself conceited when he believed this particular bullet had
been presented to him. Why?
On his stomach he inched down out of range unless the shooter moved his
position, and then, impelled by a keen desire to know for sure, he
adopted the old, old trick of sending his hat scouting for him. A dead
bush near by furnished the necessary stick, and the steep slope gave
him shelter while he tested the real purpose of the man who had shot.
It might be just a hunter, of course--only this was a poor place for
hunting anything but one inoffensive young flyer who meant harm to no
one. He put his hat on the stick, pushed the stick slowly up past a
rock, and tried to make the hat act as though its owner was crawling
laboriously to some fancied shelter.
For a minute or two the hat crawled unmolested. Then, _pang-g_ came
another bullet and bored a neat, brown-rimmed hole through the uphill
side of the hat, and tore a ragged hole on its way out through the
downhill side. Johnny let the hat slide down to him, looked at the
holes with widening eyes, said "Good gosh!" just under his breath, and
hitched himself farther down the slope.
His curiosity was satisfied; he had seen all of the country he needed
to see and there was nothing to stay for, anyway. When he reached.
the patient sorrel pony a minute or two later (it had taken him half an
hour or more to climb from the pony to the peak, but climbing, of
course, is much slower than coming down--even without the acceleration
of singing rifle bullets) he was perspiring rather freely and puffing a
little.
For a time he waited there under the shelf of rock. But he heard no
sound from above, and in a little while he led the pony down the other
way, which brought him to the valley near a small pasture which was
evidently the pony's home, judging from the way he kept pulling in that
direction. Johnny turned the horse in and closed the gate, setting the
old saddle astride it with the bridle hanging over the horn. He did
not care for further exploration, thank you.
What Johnny would like to know was, what had he done that he should be
shot at? He was down there by Cliff Lowell's invitation-- Straightway
he set off angrily, taking long steps to the cabin and the great oak
tree beside it. The two dogs and five half-naked Mexican children
spied him and scattered, the dogs coming at him full tilt, the children
scuttling to the cabin. Johnny swore at the dogs and they did not
bite. He followed the children and they did not stop. So he came
presently to the oak and roused Cliff, who came promptly to an elbow
with a wicked looking automatic pointed straight at Johnny's middle.
"Say, for gosh sake! I been shot at twice already this morning.
What's the idea? I never was gunned so much in my life, and I live in
Arizona, that's supposed to be bad. What's the matter with this darned
place?"
Cliff tucked the gun out of sight under his blanket, yawned, and lay
down again. "You caught me asleep, old man. I beg your pardon--but I
have learned in Mexico that it's best to get the gun first and see who
it is after that. Did you say something about being shot at?"
"I did, but I could say more. Here I am down here without any gun but
that cussed shotgun, and I didn't have that, even, when I coulda used
it handy. And look what I got, up here on the hill!" He removed his
hat and poked two fingers through the two holes in the crown. "Some
movie stuff! What's the idea?"
Cliff nearly looked startled. He called, "Oh, Mateo!" And Mateo came
in haste, bent down, and the two murmured together in Mexican.
Afterwards Cliff turned to Johnny with his little smile.
"It's all right, old man--glad you weren't hurt. It was a mistake,
though. You were a stranger, and it was thought, I suppose, that you
were spying on this place. While it was a close call for you, it
proves that we are being well cared for. Better forget it and turn in."
He yawned again and turned over so that his back was toward Johnny, and
that youth took the hint and departed to find blankets to spread for
himself. He was tired enough to lie down and sleepy enough to sleep,
but he could not blandly forget about those bullets as Cliff advised.
There were several things he wanted to know before he would feel
perfectly satisfied.
Since the Thunder Bird was not here, why should strangers be shot at?
Their only trouble would be with the guards along the boundary, when
they tried to cross back from Mexico. But they had not tried it yet.
The guards were still happily unaware of how they were going to worry
later on, so why the shooting?
"Oh, well, thunder! They didn't hit me--so I should care. If Cliff
wants to set guards around this camp before there's anything to guard,
that's his business. Like paying me before I fly, I guess. He's got
the guards up there practising, maybe. I should worry; my job's
flying."