When he went into the station, the agent eyed him curiously as he looked up from his telegraphing and nodded his promise to care for the bags. He remembered Saxton and Wheaton and supposed that they were going to Poindexter's on ranch business.
Saxton drove up to the platform with the buckboard.
"All ready," he said, and the three men climbed in, the bishop and Wheaton in the back seat and Raridan by Saxton, who drove.
"The roads out here are the worst. It's a good thing the ground's frozen."
"It's a better thing that you know the way," said Raridan. "I'm a lost child in the wilderness."
"If you lose me, Wheaton can find the way," said Saxton.
They could hear the train puffing far in the distance. Its passage had not disturbed the sleep of the little village. The lantern of the station-master flashed in the main street as he picked his way homeward. Stars could be seen beyond the flying clouds. The road lay between wire-fenced ranches, and the scattered homes of their owners were indistinguishable in the darkness of the night. A pair of ponies drew the buckboard briskly over the hard, rough road.
"How far is it?" asked the bishop.
"Five miles. We can do it in an hour," said Saxton over his shoulder.