The driver nodded his understanding, and began admonishing the off-wheel horse who was using his heels rather too freely.
“Thet critter would run away if I give him half a show,” grinned Ike.
“Of course if he were to do that and turn the coach over, you could not help yourself, could you, Mr. Fairweather?” questioned Grace innocently.
Ike gave her a quick sidelong glance, but Grace Harlowe’s face was guileless.
“I b’lieve you’d like to have him run away,” he chuckled.
“Oh, no, nothing like that, sir. My friends might get hurt. Otherwise, I should not mind it at all.”
“You shore are a queer one,” muttered Ike. “Over beyond the rise you see ahead is Squaw Valley. Good water there and fine place to have chuck. How much further do you reckon on goin’?”
“I was about to suggest that you decide that. If we ride until ten o’clock it will be late enough. I imagine, too, that our friends in the coach will have had enough of it by then. After leaving the Valley, if we decide to go further, I will go inside, giving Lieutenant Wingate an opportunity to ride outside with you. Perhaps you may be able to induce him to tell you how he fought the Huns above the clouds. I know you will enjoy hearing of it from a man who has fought that way.”
“Shore, I would. Never was a prisoner over there, was you?” asked Ike.
“Yes, the Boches got me once and sent me to a prison camp, but I made my escape. They came near getting me twice after that.”