The blue eyes of the teamster were troubled. Was there ever such a country for white man to travel? His horses were jaded. Their lean sides were tuckered. Gray streaks of sweat scored them from shoulder to flank.
The man lolled heavily in his driving seat in the manner of the prairie teamster. He knew there was trouble ahead, but it was practically all he did know of the journey before him.
As the cart topped the rise he bestirred himself. His whip flicked the air without touching the horses, and he chirrupped encouragingly. The weary but willing creatures raised their drooping heads, their ribs expanded as they drew their "tugs" taut, and, at a slow, shuffling trot, they began the descent.
A voice from behind caused the man to glance swiftly over his shoulder.
"It's no use asking you where we are now, I suppose?" it said in a peevish tone.
But the teamster's mood was its match.
"Not a heap, I guess, ma'm," he retorted, and gave up his attention to avoiding the precipice on his right.
"How far is the place supposed to be?"
The woman's unease was very evident. Her eyes were upon the darkening walls of the canyon toward which they were traveling.
"Eighty miles from Crowsfoot. That's how the boss said, anyways."
"How far have we come now?"
The man laughed. There seemed to be something humorous in his passenger's inquiries.
"Crowsfoot to Snarth's farm, thirty-five miles, good. Snarth's to Rattler Head, thirty. Sixty-five. Fifteen into this precious camp on Yellow Creek. Guess we bin comin' along good since sun-up, an' now it's noon. Countin' our stop fer breakfast we ought to make thirty odd miles. Guess we come a good hundred." He laughed again.
The woman gave an exclamation of impatience and vexation.
"I think your employer ought to be ashamed of himself sending you to do the journey. You don't know where you are, or what direction we're going in. The horses are nearly foundered, and we may be miles and miles from our destination. What are you going to do?"
"Ke'p goin' jest as long as the hosses ken ke'p foot to the ground. Guess we'll ease 'em at the bottom, here. It's nigh feed time. Say, ma'm, it ain't no use worritin'. We'll git som'eres sure. The sun's dead ahead."
"What's the use of that?" Mercy Lascelles snapped at the man's easy acceptance of the situation. "I wish now I'd come by Leeson Butte."
"That's sure how the boss said," retorted the man. "The Leeson trail is the right one. It's a good trail, an' I know most every inch of it. You was set comin' round through the hills. Guessed you'd had enough prairie on the railroad. It's up to you. Howsum, we'll make somewheres by nightfall. Seems to me I got a notion o' that hill, yonder. That one, out there," he went on, pointing with his whip at a bald, black cone rising in the distance against the sky. "That kind o' seems like the peak o' Devil's Hill. I ain't jest sure, but it seems like."