But Sandy refused to be left behind, and he also objected to a rider that rode soggily, ka-lump, ka-lump, like a bag of meal tied to the horn with one saddle string.

Sandy pounded along with his ears laid flat against his skull, for spite keeping to the roughest gait he knew, short of pitching.

Bland Halliday pounded along in the saddle, tears of pain in his opaque eyes, caused by having bitten his tongue twice.
"For cat's sake, is this the only way of getting to your camp ?" he gasped, when Johnny and the bronk mercifully slowed to climb a steep arroyo bank.
"Unless yuh fly," Johnny assured him happily, hugging the thought that, however awkward he might be when he first essayed to fly, it would be humanly impossible to surpass the awkwardness of Bland Halliday in the saddle.
"Believe me, bo, we'll fly, then, if I have to _build_ a plane!" Halliday let go the saddle horn just long enough to draw the back of his grimy wrist across his perspiring face.

"And I've heard folks claim they _liked_ to ride on a horse!" he added perplexedly.
Johnny grinned and turned off the road to ride straight across the country.

It would be rough going for the aviator, but it would shorten the journey ten or twelve miles, which meant a good deal to Johnny's peace of mind.
He did not feel it necessary to inform his expert assistant that Sinkhole Camp was accessible to wagons, carts, buckboards--automobiles, even, if one was lucky in dodging rocks, and the tires held out.