Ralph slowed down instantly. At the same time he sounded the Klaxon, and veered more or less to one side of the road.
It turned out to be a market wagon belonging to some “trucker” who was making for town in order to dispose of his vegetables, fresh eggs, and fowls. He gave them at least half of the road, and they whirled past. Before they reached him they heard his voice raised to a bellow in which wonder and alarm predominated.
“Hey! what’s that red light in the sky mean, Mister?”
“Wyoming is all afire!” Rob shouted back; and no doubt his words caused the man to experience a sensation akin to fright.
So they kept flying along. It was a weird ride, as remarkable as any one could possibly experience, and the attending conditions added to its strangeness.
The next obstacle happened to be a load of hay. Here they were delayed for as much as half a precious minute of time in getting safely by, since the wagon took up so much of the road. Ralph again proved himself to be the right party at the wheel, for he finally managed to negotiate the passage without an upset.
Where there were straight stretches Ralph made fearful time. No contestant in the Vanderbilt Cup Race could have done much better, Rob thought, as he held his hat with one hand, and strove to see ahead.
All the while he knew what desperate chances they were taking, since this old car was not built for a racing machine. At any moment some weak part might give way, and—well, Rob did not like to even think what the result was bound to be if such a thing came to pass. At least, they would never know what hit them, and there was a little grim consolation about that.
The road was unfamiliar to the visitor, but Ralph knew it like a book; and while he had to keep his eyes fixed ahead, at the same time familiar turns continually told him just what section they had reached.
“Halfway there!” he called out at one time, and Rob drew a long breath of satisfaction, for it meant that they had done a fair portion of the course without meeting with any accident.