“Who’s doing this driving?” cried Markham, “I never yet had to ask a saphead for advice in handling horses.” And again the whip fell on the straining flanks.
Peters clenched his fists in the bearskin gloves. It occurred to him that he could lift Markham bodily out of the front seat, take his place, and do the driving himself; but he did not.
The horses struggled on, and in the falling dark the travelers topped a “rise” that gave them a dim view of the buildings of Morton’s ranch. A light showed in one of the ranch-house windows like a star, and toward it Markham drove, and presently halted at the door.
“Now that I’ve handled the reins all the way from Devil’s Lake, Nix,” remarked Markham, as he jumped out, and helped Hesther to alight, “I allow it’s up to you to take care of the team. Cold, Essie?”
“Not a bit,” the girl answered, and hurried toward the door. Markham followed her, and Peter drove on to the stable.
As he unhitched and brought the horses into the shelter, he was a little surprised to discover that there were no other animals in the place. The team was Morton’s, but Bailey’s cow horse, together with those of Peters and Markham, should have been in the stable; unless Bailey was out at the corral and shelter sheds, looking after the fifty range horses that were kept there.
Peters lighted a lantern, removed the harness from the horses, and, after putting hay in the mangers, began rubbing the animals down with an old gunny sack. He was hard at this when a call reached his ears from the house: “Peters! This way—on the jump!”
It was Markham’s voice, and there was a note of alarm in it that startled Peters. Lantern in hand, he hurried out of the stable and made his way to the house. Flinging the door wide, he crossed the threshold into the ranch-house sitting room.
“What’s wrong, Porter?” he asked.
The “cannon-ball” stove glowed with heat. That, and the bright oil lamp, dazzled Peters’ eyes for the moment, and he could not see what was going on in the room.