"Your man is sick." Which was true enough; Cliff was a very sick man that morning. "You'll have to come to him. Get in—it won't take long."
Schwab hung back a little, not from fear of Johnny but because he had no stomach for flying. "Well, but didn't he send—"
"He didn't send a darned thing but me. He wouldn't trust me to bring anything else. Get in. I'm in a hurry."
"What's the matter with him? He was all right last night." Still
Schwab hung back. "I'll wait until he can come. I—I can't leave."
Then he found himself looking up into the barrel of Johnny's six-shooter. "I was told to bring you back with me. Get in, I said."
"This is some trick! I—"
"You get—in!"
So Schwab climbed in awkwardly, his face mottled and flabby with fear of the Thunder Bird.
"Fasten that strap around you—be sure it's fast. And put on this cap and goggles if you like. And sit still." Then he called to the languid Mexican who was idly watching him from afar. "Hey! Come and pull the block away from the wheels."
The Mexican came trotting, the silver of the night before clinking in his overalls pocket. Grinning hopefully, he picked up the post and carried it to one side. But Johnny was not thinking then of tips. He let in the motor until the Thunder Bird went teetering around in a wide half circle and scudded down the level stretch, taking the air easily.