itself. Bland turned his head sidewise, listening. The pause became more
marked. The steady, forward thrust slackened a little. Johnny was aware
that the monotonous waste below did not slip behind them quite so fast;
not quite.

Bland was nursing the motor along, Johnny could tell by his slight
movements. It seemed to him that a tenseness had crept into the set of
Bland's head. Johnny braced himself for something--just what, he did not
know. His knowledge of motors was superficial. Something was wrong with
the ignition, he guessed, but he had no idea what it could be.

A sick feeling of thwarted purpose came over him. He knew it was not
fear. He felt as though he could not possibly be afraid in an airplane,
however much reason he might have for fear. He felt betrayed, as though
this wonderful piece of mechanism, for which he had paid so dear a price
and which he worshiped in proportion, had suddenly turned traitor. It was
failing him, just when his need of it was so vital. Just when he had so
much to retrieve, just when he had counted on its help in re-establishing
his self-respect.

Bland turned his head, and gave Johnny a fleeting glance from the corner
of one eye. Bland's face was a sallow white.

Johnny laid down his rifle and carefully placed feet and hands on the
controls. Bland might get scared and lose his head, and if he did, Johnny
did not want to be altogether at his mercy. Anyway, Bland did not know
the country.

"How far will she glide?" Johnny shouted above the sputtering cough of
the motor. But Bland only shook his head slowly from right to left and
back again. Bland's ears were a waxy white now, and the line of his jaw
had sharpened. Johnny believed that Bland would fail him too.

They were gliding down an invisible incline, and it was a long way to
Sinkhole. Johnny began to think feverishly of certain sandy patches, bare
of brush and rocks, and to estimate distances. Now they crossed the line
fence and were over the rough country below Red Hill and the plane was
lifting and falling to the uneven currents like a boat riding the waves.
Gliding parallel with a dry tributary of Sinkhole Creek, the plane
side-slipped and came perilously close to disaster. Bland righted it,
but Johnny held his breath at the way the ground had jumped up at them.

Ahead, and a little to one side, three riders went creeping up a slope.
They seemed to be heading toward Sinkhole Camp, and Johnny signaled Bland
to keep off,