Skyrider (Illustrated Edition). B. M. Bower

      Skyrider

      B. M. BOWER

      Illustrated by Lif Strand

      Cover Image © Can Stock Photo Inc. / mariait and Ericus

      Interior Images © Lif Strand

      All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except for brief quotations for review purposes only.

      Illustrated Books

      PO Box 632

      Floyd VA 24091-0632

      ISBN 13: 978-1-63384-304-2

      First Edition

      10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

      Table of Contents

       A Poet Without Honor

       One Fight, Two Quarrels, and a Riddle

       Johnny Goes Gaily Enough to Sinkhole

       A Thing That Sets Like a Hawk

       Desert Glimpses

       Salvage

       Finder, Keeper

       Over the Telephone

       A Midnight Ride

       Signs, and No One to Read Them

       Thieves Ride Boldly

       Johnny's Amazing Run of Luck Still Holds Its Pace

       Mary V Confronts Johnny

       Johnny Would Serve Two Masters

       The Fire That Made the Smoke

       Let's Go

       A Rider of the Sky

       Flying Comes High

       We Fly South

       Men Are Stupid

       Mary V Will Not Be Bluffed

       Luck Turns Traitor

       Dreams and Darkness

       Johnny's Dilemma

       Skyrider Has Flew!

      A POET WITHOUT HONOR

      Before I die, I’ll ride the sky; I’ll part the clouds like foam. I’ll brand each star with the Rolling R, And lead the Great Bear home.

      I’ll circle Mars to beat the cars, On Venus I will call. If she greets me fair as I ride the air, To meet her I will stall.

      I’ll circle high—as if passing by— Then volplane, bank, and land. Then if she’ll smile I’ll stop awhile, And kiss her snow-white hand.

      To toast her health and wish her wealth I’ll drink the Dipper dry. Then say, “Hop in, and we’ll take a spin, For I’m a rider of the sky.”

      Through the clouds we’ll float in my airplane boat—

      Mary V flipped the rough paper over with so little tenderness that a corner tore in her fingers, but the next page was blank. She made a sound suspiciously like a snort, and threw the tablet down on the littered table of the bunk house. After all, what did she care where they floated—Venus and Johnny Jewel? Riding the sky with Venus when he knew very well that his place was out in the big corral, riding some of those broom-tail bronks that he was being paid a salary—a good salary—for breaking! Mary V thought that her father ought to be told about the way Johnny was spending all his time—writing silly poetry about Venus. It was the first she had ever known about his being a poet. Though it was pretty punk, in Mary V’s opinion. She was glad and thankful that Johnny had refrained from writing any such doggerel about her. That would have been perfectly intolerable. That he should write poetry at all was intolerable. The more she thought of it, the more intolerable it became.

      Just for punishment, and as a subtle way of letting him know what she thought of him and his idiotic jingle, she picked up the tablet, found the pencil Johnny had used, and did a little poetizing herself. She could have rhymed it much better, of course, if she had condescended to give any thought whatever to the matter, which she did not. Condescension went far enough when she stooped to reprove the idiot by finishing the verse that he had failed to finish, because he had already overtaxed his poor little brain.

      Stooping, then, to reprove, and flout, and ridicule, Mary V finished the verse so that it read thus:

      “Through the clouds we’ll float in my airplane boat— For Venus I am truly sorry! All the stars you sight, you witless wight, You’ll see when you and Venus light! But then—I’m sure that I should worry!”

      Mary V was tempted to write more. She rather fancied that term “witless wight” as applied to Johnny Jewel. It had a classical dignity which atoned for the slang made necessary by her instant need of a rhyme for sorry.

      But there was the danger of being caught in the act by some meddlesome fellow who loved to come snooping around where he had no business, so Mary V placed the tablet open on the table just as she had found it, and left the bunk house without deigning to fulfill the errand of mercy that had taken her there. Why should she trouble to sew the lining in a coat sleeve for a fellow who pined for a silly flirtation with Venus? Let Johnny Jewel paw and struggle to get into his coat. Better, let Venus sew that lining for him!

      Mary V stopped halfway to the house, and hesitated. It had occurred to her that she might add another perfectly withering verse to that poem. It could start: “While sailing in my airplane boat, I’ll ask Venus to mend my coat.”

      Mary V started back, searing couplets forming with incredible swiftness in her brain. How she would flay Johnny Jewel with the keen blade of her wit! If he thought he was the only person at the Rolling R ranch who could write poetry, it would be a real kindness to show him his mistake.

      Just then Bud Norris and Bill Hayden came up from the corrals, heading straight for the bunk house. Mary V walked on, past the bunk house and across the narrow flat opposite the corrals and up on the first bench of the bluff that sheltered the ranch buildings from the worst of the desert winds. She did it very innocently, and as though she had never in her life had any thought of invading the squat, adobe building kept sacred to the leisure hours of the Rolling R boys.

      There was a certain ledge where she had played when she was a child, and which she favored nowadays as a place to sit and look down upon the activities in the big corral—whenever activities were taking place therein—an interested spectator who was not suspected of being within hearing. As a matter of fact, Mary V could hear nearly everything that was said in that corral, if the wind was right. She could also see very well indeed, as the boys had learned to their cost when their riding did not come quite up to the mark. She made for that ledge now.

      She had no more than settled herself comfortably when Bud and Bill came cackling from the bunk house. A little chill of apprehension went up Mary V’s spine and into the roots of her hair. She had not thought of the possibilities of that open tablet falling into other hands than Johnny Jewel’s.

      “Hyah! You gol-darn witless wight,” bawled Bud Norris, and slapped Bill Hayden on the back and roared. “Hee-yah! Skyrider! When yo’ all git done kissin’ Venus’s snow-white hand, come and listen at what’s been wrote for yo’ all by Mary V! Whoo-ee! Where’s the Great Bear at that yo’ all was