But the teamster’s mood was its match.
“Not a heap, I guess, ma’m,” he retorted, and gave up his attention to avoiding the precipice on his right.
“How far is the place supposed to be?”
The woman’s unease was very evident. Her eyes were upon the darkening walls of the canyon toward which they were traveling.
“Eighty miles from Crowsfoot. That’s how the boss said, anyways.”
“How far have we come now?”
The man laughed. There seemed to be something humorous in his passenger’s inquiries.
“Crowsfoot to Snarth’s farm, thirty-five miles, good. Snarth’s to Rattler Head, thirty. Sixty-five. Fifteen into this precious camp on Yellow Creek. Guess we bin comin’ along good since sun-up, an’ now it’s noon. Countin’ our stop fer breakfast we ought to make thirty odd miles. Guess we come a good hundred.” He laughed again.
The woman gave an exclamation of impatience and vexation.