“Say, I know what ailed them squaws, Bland.  Gods is right.  You know what they thought?  They took us for their Thunder Bird lighting.  I’ll bet they’re making medicine right now, trying to appease the Bird’s wrath.  And say, listen here, Bland.  If they do come at us, all we’ve got to do is start up and buzz at ’em.  There ain’t an Injun on earth could face that.”

Bland lifted a pasty face from his work.  “Fat chance,” he lamented.  “You’d oughta brought your gun.  Back there at Sinkhole you was damn generous with the artillery—­there where you had no use for it.  Now you fly into Injun country without so much as a sharp idea.  Bo, you give me a pain!”

Johnny spied an Indian peering fearfully out from the branches of a willow.  He ducked behind the motor and hissed the news to Bland.  Bland nearly fell from his perch.

“Gawd!” he gasped, clinging to a strut while he stared fascinatedly in the direction Johnny had indicated.  “Git in, bo, and we’ll beat it.  She may have power enough to hop us outa this death trap.  We can come down somewheres else.”  He clawed back and climbed in feverishly.

Johnny emitted a convulsive snort.  “Death trap” sounded very funny, applied to this particular bit of harmless landscape.  Behind him, Bland was imploring him to hurry, and Johnny climbed in.

“You let me pilot the thing,” he ordered.  “I know Injuns.  I still have hopes of saving our lives, Bland.  We’ll scare ’em to death.  We’ll be their Thunder Bird for ’em.  Now lemme tell yuh, before we start—­oh, we’re safe for the present.  They’ll stutter some before they attack us in here—­say, good golly, Bland!  Is that your teeth chattering?  Hold your jaws still, can’t yuh, while I tell yuh what we’ll do?”

“F’r cat’s sake, hurry!  I seen another one peekin’ around the corner of the house!”

“Now listen, Bland.  The Navajos have got a Thunder Bird mixed up in their religion, and I guess maybe these Injuns will have, too.  If so, we are reasonably safe.  They must not know we’re plain human—­we’ve got to be gods come down to earth, and this is the Thunder Bird.  Or another kind of bird.  We’ll make ’em think that.  They don’t sabe flying machines—­see?  And we’ll find out where they’re all at, and fly low over their heads to convince them that didn’t see us come down.  It’ll scare ’em, and work on their superstition, so when we come down again to locate that motor trouble, they’ll stand in awe of us long enough to give us time to get in shape.  You leave the soaring to me, Bland.  I’ll pull us through all right.  Think she’ll lift us off the ground?”

“She’s gotta lift us!” Bland chattered.  “She’s runnin’ better since we landed.  And say, bo, don’t go any closer to them—­”

Johnny told him to shut up; he was running things.  Whereupon he circled and taxied back down the field, thankful that the soil was sun-baked and hard.  The motor ran smoothly again—­a fact which Bland was too scared to notice.  He gasped when Johnny turned back toward the huts, but beyond a protesting look over his shoulder he gave no sign of dissent.