"We'll be in Clarkson laughing at the police to-morrow afternoon if we have good luck," said Raridan. "If we've made a bad guess we'll sneak home and not tell where we've been."
The road proved to be in better condition than Saxton had expected, and he kept the ponies at their work with his whip. The rumble of the wagon rose above the men's voices and they ceased trying to talk. Raridan and Saxton smoked in silence, lighting one cigar from another. The bishop rode with his head bowed on his breast, asleep; he had learned the trick of taking sleep when and where he could.
Wheaton felt the numbing of his hands and feet in the cold night air and welcomed the discomfort, as a man long used to a particular sensation of pain welcomes a new one that proves a counter-irritant. He reviewed again the grounds on which he might have excused himself from taking this trip. Nothing, he argued, could be more absurd than this adventure on an errand which might much better have been left to professional detectives. But it seemed a far cry back to his desk at the bank, and to the tasks there which he really enjoyed. In a few hours the daily routine would be in progress. The familiar scenes of the opening passed before him—the clerks taking their places; the slamming of the big books upon the desks as they were brought from the vault; the jingle of coin in the cages as the tellers assorted it and made ready for the day's business. He saw himself at his desk, the executive officer of the most substantial institution in Clarkson, his signature carrying the bank's pledge, his position one of dignity and authority.
But he was on William Porter's service; he pictured himself walking into the bank from a fruitless quest, but one which would attract attention to himself. If they found the boy and released him safely, he would share the thanks and praise which would be the reward of the rescuing party. He had no idea that Snyder would be captured; and he even planned to help him escape if he could do so.
They had turned off from the main highway and were well up in the branch road that ran to the Poindexter place.
"This is right, Wheaton, isn't it?" asked Saxton, drawing up the ponies.
"Yes, this is the ranch road."
They went forward slowly. The clouds were more compactly marshaled now and the stars were fewer. Suddenly Saxton brought the ponies to a stand and pointed to a dark pile that loomed ahead of them. The Poindexter house stood forth somber in the thin starlight.
"Is that the place?" asked the bishop, now wide awake.
"That's it," said Wheaton. "This road ends there. The river's just beyond the cottonwoods. That first building was Poindexter's barn. It cost more than the court house of this county."