In this they travelled
the thirty miles between the station and their destination. If
anything could, this drive should have stirred the acrimonious McGuire
to a sense of his ransom. They sped upon velvety wheels across an
exhilarant savanna. The pair of Spanish ponies struck a nimble,
tireless trot, which gait they occasionally relieved by a wild,
untrammelled gallop. The air was wine and seltzer, perfumed, as they
absorbed it, with the delicate redolence of prairie flowers. The road
perished, and the buckboard swam the uncharted billows of the grass
itself, steered by the practised hand of Raidler, to whom each tiny
distant mott of trees was a signboard, each convolution of the low
hills a voucher of course and distance. But McGuire reclined upon his
spine, seeing nothing but a desert, and receiving the cattleman's
advances with sullen distrust. "W'at's he up to?" was the burden of
his thoughts; "w'at kind of a gold brick has the big guy got to sell?"
McGuire was only applying the measure of the streets he had walked to
a range bounded by the horizon and the fourth dimension.
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