He went out hastily and saddled his horse and rode to the rock-faced bluff, turned into a niche and rode back to the farther end, then swung sharply to the left.
It was there.

Dusty, desert-whipped, one wing drooping sharply at the end, the flat tire accentuating the tilt; with its tail perked sidewise like a fish frozen in the act of flipping; reared up on its landing gear with its little, radiatored nose crossed rakishly by the gravel-scarred propeller, that looked as though mice had nibbled the edges of its blades, it thrilled him as it had never thrilled him before.
It was his own, bought and paid for in money, and the sweat of long, toil-filled miles.

It looked bigger in that niche than it had looked out on the desert with nothing but the immensity of earth and sky to measure it by.

It looked bigger, more powerful--a mechanical miracle which still seemed more dream than reality.

And it was his, absolutely the sole property of Johnny Jewel, who had retrieved it from a foreign country--his prize.
"Boy! I sure do wish she was ready to take the air," Johnny said under his breath to Sandy, who merely threw up his head and stared at the thing with sophisticated disapproval.
Johnny got down and went up to it, laid a hand on the propeller, where its varnish was still smooth.