Amber left him, then, with a travelling-bag and a revolver for company, and the ticket-agent and his bad temper to occupy his mind.
Climbing aboard, the Virginian settled himself against the endless discomforts of the ride which he foresaw; the tonga was anything but "an aram tonga—a tonga for ease," there was no shade and no breeze, and the face of the land crawled with heat-bred haze.
To a crisp crackling of the whip-lash over the backs of the two sturdy, shaggy, flea-bitten ponies, the tonga swept away from the station, swift as a hunted fox with a dusty plume. The station dropped out of sight and the desert took them to its sterile heart.
On every hand the long swales rolled away, sunbaked, rocky, innocent of any sign of life other than the trooping telegraph poles in the south, destitute of any sort of vegetation other than the inevitable ak and gos. Wherever the eye wandered the prospect was the same—limitless expanses of raw blistering ochres, salmon-pinks, and dry faded reds, under a sky of brass and fire.
Amber leaned forward, watching the driver's face. "Your name, tonga-wallah?" he enquired.
"Ram Nath, sahib." The man spoke without moving his head, attending diligently to the management of his ponies.
"And this other passenger, who awaits us at the dak-bungalow, Ram
Nath—is he, perchance, one known both to you and to me?"
Ram Nath flicked the flagging ponies. "How should I know?" he returned brusquely.
"One," persisted Amber, "who might be known by such a name as, say,
Pink Satin?"
"What manner of talk is this?" demanded Ram Nath. "I am no child to be amused by a riddle. I know naught of your 'Pink Satin.'" He bent forward, shortening his grasp upon the reins, as if to signify that the interview was at an end.