“The A B C ranch,” cried Innes, peering through the veil of dust at the queer unreal outlines of fences and trees. “It’s our first stop.”
“Oh, I say, that’s too bad,” began Sutcliffe. Innes was already on the road, her skirts whipped by the wind into clinging drapery.
Gerty’s party found itself disorganized. Partners were trying to find or lose each other. “Get in here!” Innes heard the voice of Estrada behind her. He had a top buggy. She hailed a refuge.
“Splendid!” she cried. “What a relief!” Climbing in, she said: “I hope this isn’t upsetting Gerty’s arrangement.”
“Arrangement! Look at them!” The women were hastening out of the dust swirl into any haven that offered. With little screams of dismay, they ran like rabbits to cover.
Gerty found herself with Blinn. At the next stop, there was a block of buggies. “No use changing again!” She acknowledged herself beaten. “Let’s go on. What are they stopping for?” Dismal farce it all was!
She was pushing back her disheartened curls when the beat of horses’ hoofs back of them brought the blood back into her wind-chilled cheeks. “Rickard!” she thought. “He must have come in a special!” The gloom suddenly disgorged MacLean.
“Hardin! Where is he?”
“What’s up?” yelled Blinn. “Is it the river?” MacLean’s face answered him. His ranch scoured again—“God Almighty!”
“The river!” screamed the women. The men were surrounding MacLean, whose horse was prancing as if with the importance of having carried a Revere. “The levee!” called MacLean. “Where’s Hardin?” He spurred his mare toward Hardin, who was blacker than Napoleon at Austerlitz.