As his own precious plane he saw it.

His to keep.

His to fly, his to worship--but never to sell.
He looked away to the southward where the land stretched gray and dreary to the low skyline broken here and there with the pale outline of distant hills.

A night and half a day of riding to take them there, and an airplane to haul back through brush and rocks, maybe, and across draws and gulches--Good Lord! The thing might almost as well be in Honolulu! "But the desert places--me, I'm making the plan how it can be brought across the sand, with little brush to cut away." Tomaso's brother began arguing away his unspoken fears.

"We fix that, you bet! Two days, that's all.