He did not trust himself to stay any longer. He lashed his horses, they spun around, dragging the cart on two wheels, and away the outfit went across the prairie. And I never saw Wash Flye any more!
I hurried along and the old man found the path too steep for conversation. In places we were obliged to cling to sloping trees and ease our way down.
We were startled, after a time, by the sudden appearance of a man in the path ahead. He was climbing with haste.
“Well, gents,” he called, cheerily, “you’re lucky to be coming down instead of going up! But I figured that I’d rather climb up to the prairie and get a little sunshine than stay down there and wait for that stage to get fixed up.”
He stopped and wiped his forehead.
“What about the stage?” I asked. I had a vision of Dragg, Dawlin, and Pratt waiting at the river below or lounging in the streets of Royal City, blocking our path of retreat.
“Oh, a tire came off, this side of the river, and the rim caved in. They’ve propped up the old caboose and sent the wheel back to the blacksmith shop. You ought to have heard those other three passengers swear! I’ve had a chance to hear it scientific and fancy in my time—but those gents certainly could hang on the trimmings. Especially the fat one!”
“Fat one!”
“Yep! Fat man with a suit of clothes that would put the eyesight of a Potlatch coyote on the blink. They seem to be in a hurry. They’re walking up this hill, too. Other two men are derricking fat man up the trail. Are making some talk about getting a rancher to set ’em across Callas.”
He clapped on his hat and climbed along.