busy you are. You
better can that stuff, and take a hand here."

"Well, don't cry about it. I'll tack that linen on, if that's all that's
worrying you. But I can't stay long; I've spent too much time already
away from my work. I oughta been riding yesterday, by rights."

Bland Halliday looked at him queerly. "Me, I'd call that riding, what we
done," he retorted grimly. "I'm so sore I can hear my muscles squeak.
Well, get down here and I'll show yuh how to stretch as yuh tack. And be
sure you don't leave a hair's breadth of slack anywheres, or it'll all
have to come off and be done over again."

So that is where Johnny was, while Mary V waited for him at the cabin
and puzzled her brain over his mysterious actions, and composed her
speech--and afterwards lost her temper.

It was three o'clock before Johnny finally finished to the aviator's
grudging satisfaction what had looked to be a scant half hour's work.
Mary V had gone home, and it was too late for Johnny to catch a fresh
mount and make the ride he had intended to make. He made coffee and fried
bacon and ate a belated lunch with Halliday, and then, since the
afternoon was half gone, he let himself be persuaded--badgered would
be a better word--into spending the rest of the daylight helping Bland.

If his conscience buzzed nagging little reminders of his real duty,
Johnny's imagination and his ambition were fed a full meal of
anticipation, and he had the joy of being actually at work on an airplane
that he could proudly speak of as "my plane."

But conscience nagged all the evening. He really must get out on the
range to-morrow, no matter how urgent Bland Halliday made the work
appear. He really must look over that other bunch of horses, and ride
the west fence. Ab-so-lutely without fail, that must be done.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE FIRE THAT MADE THE SMOKE

Mary V, watching from that convenient ridge which commanded the Sinkhole
mail box and the faint trail leading from it to the camp, saw the
home-coming stage stop there. Through her glasses she saw the horses
stretching their sweaty necks away from their burdensome collars, and
then stand hipshot, thankful for the brief rest. She saw the driver
descend stiffly from the seat, walk around to the back of the vehicle
and, with some straining, draw out what appeared to be a box the size and
shape of a case of tinned kerosene. He carried it with some labor to the
mail box, tilted it on end behind the post,