Billy Fenstow mopped his perspiring brow and leaned back to enjoy the ride.
The dusty road wound through the hills, golden clouds of dust marking the passing of the bus.
They were halfway to the main highway when the motor started to cough and the big vehicle slowed to a stop.
The driver buried himself under the hood and tinkered with the engine for a few minutes. Then he climbed back into his seat and started the motor again.
They progressed for several hundred yards and finally groaned to a stop.
“Looks like we may be late in getting to dinner,” said Curt. “Sounded like serious trouble under the hood that time.”
The lanky cowboy uncoiled his legs and went out to see if he could be of any assistance to the bus driver.
Billy Fenstow, taking advantage of the stop, spoke to Janet and Helen, his voice so low that it was doubtful if he could be overheard by any other member of the company.
“What about staying in the company for my next picture?” he asked.
“When will it start?” Janet countered.