XX—ACROSS CALLAS
THERE were four or five passengers inside the coach, and I boosted the judge over the wheel and put him in there. There was no one on the box with the driver, and that was not surprising, for I must say he did not have any coaxing way with him: he had his fists full of muddy reins and looked down on me with his mouth screwed around. I asked meekly if I might ride up there with him.
“If you think a plug-hat is going to help me any getting acrost sixteen miles of ’dobe clay, climb up! But do one thing or t’other damn quick!”
It did not look as if I would be making a specially promising friend, but I climbed just the same.
“Good luck!” said the landlord, “and I hope you’ll take it all right from us if we let ’em loose after we have shaken ’em down.”
“Send ’em along, sir. One at a time or the lot in a bunch!”
That little speech suited the crowd; I got a lot of friendly hand-waves.
A few rods from the last house in Royal City the muddy street swung to the right and sort of sneaked into the river, as if it were ashamed and wanted to wash the dirt off itself. There was no bridge. The horses plunged into the water and dragged the coach across the stream, floundering in depths that barely allowed them footing.