It was this which had begun to burn, but it was still fairly palatable.

So, with a can of water from a muddy spring, they breakfasted, their hunger charitably covering much distrust and dulling for the time even Bland's fear of the place.
The sun, shining its Arizona fiercest though the season was early fall, brought a cooked-varnish smell from the wings.

There was no shade save the scant shadow which the scraggly willows and brush cast over the edge of the parched field, and of that Bland refused to avail himself.
He would rather roast, he said.
Johnny conscientiously carried the kettle back to the hut, then set to work helping Bland.

Which help consisted mainly of turning the propeller whenever Bland wanted to start the motor; a heartbreaking task in that broiling heat, especially since the motor half the time would not start at all.

Crimson, the perspiration streaming down his cheeks like tears, Johnny swung on that propeller until Bland's grating voice singing out "Contact!" stirred murder within his soul and he balked with the motor and crawled under a wing.
"Yon can start her yourself if you want to start," he growled when Bland expostulated.