The approaching carriage proved to be an impressively elegant affair, the locality considered, drawn by two horses which were clearly not of the range variety. And then further things were revealed: a coachman sat on the front seat, and a man who wore an air of authority about him like a kingly robe sat alone on the back seat. Then to Harboro, sitting high with the last rays of the moon touching his face, came the hearty hail: “Harboro! How are you, Harboro?”
It was the voice of the General Manager.
Harboro turned his horse so that he stood alongside the open carriage. He leaned over the wheel and shook hands with the General Manager. The encounter seemed to him to add the one desirable touch of familiarity to the night ride. He explained his presence away out on the Quemado Road; and the General Manager also explained. He had been spending the evening with friends on a near-by ranch. His family were remaining for the night, but it had been necessary for him to return to Piedras Negras.
Harboro looked about for his companions, intending to introduce them. But they were a little too far away to be included comfortably in such a ceremony. For some reason Runyon had chosen to ride on a few steps.
“How many are you?” inquired the General Manager, with a note of purposefulness in his voice. “Three? That’s good. You get in with me. Tie your horse behind. Two can ride abreast more comfortably than three, and you and I can talk. I’ve never felt so lonesome in my life.” He moved over to one side of the seat, and looked back as if he expected to help in getting Harboro’s horse tied behind the carriage. His invitation did not seem at all like a command, but it did seem to imply that a refusal would be out of the question.
The arrangement seemed quite simple and desirable to Harboro. He was not a practised horseman, and he was beginning to feel the effect of saddle strain. Moreover, he had realized a dozen times during the past hour that two could ride easily side by side on the desert road, while a third rider was continually getting in the way.
He called to Runyon cheerfully: “You two go on ahead—I’m going to ride the rest of the way in.”
“Fine!” called back Runyon. To Runyon everything always seemed precisely ideal—or at least such was the impression he created.
It became a little cavalcade now, the riders leading the way. Riders and carriage kept close together for a time. Sylvia remained silent, but she felt the presence of her companion as a deliciously palpable thing. Harboro and the General Manager were talking, Harboro’s heavy tones alternating at unequal intervals with the crisp, penetrating voice of the General Manager—a voice dry with years, but vital nevertheless.
After a time the horses in the carriage broke into a rhythmic trot. In the darkness Runyon’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “We’ll have to have a little canter, or we’ll get run over,” he said gayly, and he and Sylvia gave rein to their horses.