Elated and having somewhat quieted his tingling nerves, Roy sprang up ready for new action.
“We’ve tried her out,” he said, with satisfaction. “Now, what’s the program?”
“I would suggest,” answered Mr. Cook, arising and taking off his coat as though about to attack his usual day’s routine of work, whatever it was, “that you are entitled to a little play. I can see you have been under a strain—probably ever since you left Newark—”
“Before,” interrupted Roy, with a laugh, thinking of his concern over the packing of the aeroplane and his constant apprehension over its safe transportation.
“Then take a day or two off. I may need you to-morrow or the next day. Get out and amuse yourself to-day. See you at dinner.”
The boy was certainly glad enough to follow instructions. The responsibility of the aeroplane off his shoulders, for a time, he passed out into the glare of the July sun ready to enjoy his holiday to the full. First, he went home, had a bath, changed his clothes and amused himself in Mr. Cook’s library for a few moments. Then, throwing his brother Phil’s camera over his shoulder, he went out sight-seeing.
With a pretty fair knowledge of the desert and surrounding country, he first made an examination of the town. That meant the stores—he had had enough of the saloons. Not one of these escaped him. In the main, they were similar—practically trading-posts, with horse feed and provisions for prospectors, miners, oil and cattle men—but one shop made a half-hearted attempt at notions, books, and drugs in front, while in the rear was a stock of showy toys, beads and machine-made blankets and moccasins for lazy Indians who might have money.
To Roy’s delight—but to his surprise—he found here an assortment of local picture postcards. He immediately purchased three sets which he later forwarded to his mother and brothers. On those which were labeled “Calabasa Mountains from the San Juan river,” he drew arrows pointing to a gap in the range. Beneath this, he wrote: “Where we captured Mike Hassell, the thief, bandit and murderer. See letter to follow.” These he sent to his brothers. His mother’s card he left blank.
Then, discovering that the postmaster was also a photographer, he took a boyish fancy to have his picture made. Carefully putting aside his camera as a part of civilization, he adjusted his revolver so that it was well to the fore, and tilting his hat brim, assumed a careless pose. In a few minutes, he had six tintypes, representing him in his prized outfit. A quarter of an hour later, he was on the banks of the San Juan.
There he took a half dozen snap shots and then sat down on the cliff-like banks to enjoy another look at his gorgeous tintypes. Finally he began to smile. As last, he said to himself: