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.
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