, his somewhat stilted English easing off into a
mixture of good American slang and the Mexican dialect spoken by peons
and some a grade higher up the ladder. He was not more than seventeen,
and while Johnny recalled his instructions to put any greaser on the run,
he took the liberty of interpreting those instructions to please himself.
This kid was harmless enough. He talked the range gossip that proved to
Johnny's satisfaction that he was what he professed to be--a young rider
for Tucker Bly, who owned the "Forty-Seven" brand that ranged just east
of the Rolling R. Johnny had never seen this Tomaso--plain Tom, he called
him presently--but he knew Tucker Bly; and a few leading questions served
to set at rest any incipient suspicions Johnny may have had.

They were doing the same work, he and Tomaso. The only difference was
that Johnny camped alone, and Tomaso rode out from the Forty-Seven ranch
every day, taking whatever direction Tucker Bly might choose for him. But
the freemasonry of the range land held Johnny to the feeling that there
was a common bond between them, in spite of Tomaso's swarthy skin.
Besides, he was lonely. His tongue loosened while Tomaso ate and praised
Johnny's cookery with the innate flattery of his race.

"Wha's that pic'shur? What you call that thing?" Tomaso pointed a
slender, brown finger at a circular heading, whereon a pink aeroplane did
a "nose dive" toward the date line through voluted blue clouds.

"That? Say! Didn't you ever see a flying machine?" Johnny stared at him
pityingly.

Tomaso shook his head vaguely. "Me, I'm never saw one of them things. My
brother, he's tell me. He knows the spot where there's one fell down. My
brother, he says she's awful bad luck, them thing. This-a one, she's fell
'cross the line. She's set there like a big hawk, my brother says. Nobody
wants. She's bad luck."

"Bad luck nothing." Johnny's eyes had widened a bit. "What you mean, one
fell across the line? You don't mean--say what 'n thunder _do_ yuh mean?
Where's there a flying machine setting like a hawk?"

Tomaso waved a brown hand comprehensively from east to west.
"Somewhere--me, I dunno. My brother, he's know. He's saw it set there.
It's what them soldiers got lost. It's bad luck. Them soldiers most dead
when somebody find. They don't know where that thing is no more. They
don't want it no more. My brother, she's tol' me them soldiers flew like
birds and then they fell down. It's bad luck. My br