FLYING COMES HIGH Johnny Jewel reined his horse on a low ridge and stared dully down into the little valley where a scattered herd of horses fed restlessly, their uneven progress toward Sinkhole Creek vaguely indicated by the general direction of their grazing.

The pendulum of his spirits had swung farther and farther away from his ecstasy of the morning, until now he had plumbed the deepest well of gloom.

That he had flown to the Rolling R ranch and back without wrecking his airplane or killing himself did not cheer him.

He was in the mood to wish that he had broken his neck instead of coming safely to earth.
Johnny was like a sleeper who has dreamed pleasantly and has awakened to find the house falling on him--or something like that.

He had dreamed great things, he had lulled his conscience with promises and reassurances that all was well, and that he was not shirking any really important duty.