ONE MORE PLUNGE FOR JOHNNY The grinding clamor of passing street cars jarring over the Spring Street crossing woke Johnny to what he thought was moonlight, until it occurred to him that the pale glow must come from street lamps.

The air was muggy, filled with the odor of damp soot.

He sniffed, turned over with the bed covering rolled close around him, snuggled his cheek into a pillow, yawned, rooted deeper, opened his eyes again, and turned on the reading light by his bed.

It was five-thirty--red dawn in Arizona where his dreaming had borne him swiftly to his old camp at Sinkhole.

Five-thirty would be getting-up time on the range, but in Los Angeles the hour seemed an ungodly time to crawl out of bed.