They managed to move everything outside, borrowed the agent’s lantern and hammer. There was a monkey-wrench in the spring-wagon, and, after an infinite lot of argumentative labor, they got the wheels and tongue on the buckboard. It glistened like a circus wagon in the lamplight. With a section of chain they fastened the tongue to the rear axle of the wagon, and were all ready for the trip to Tonto City.
Slim and Oscar declared that they were going to ride in the buckboard, and Henry was too weary to argue.
“It’s all right, Henry. If the blamed thing busts loose, they can take care of it—until found,” said Frijole.
“I believe you are right, Frijole.”
They drove slowly, until satisfied that the coupling was sufficient, and then headed for Tonto City at their usual pace, which was a cross between a harness race and a runaway. They heard Slim yelling to Henry to stay on the road, but paid no attention. At the foot of the grade they stopped for inspection. Slim said wearily, “I’m shore glad yuh stopped. Every time we tried to take a drink out of the jug—we can’t. Man, I never rode in anything as rough as this buckboard. Oscar’s very sick.”
“Ay am sea-sick,” gasped Oscar. “Some-t’ing is wrong vit us.”
The buckboard seemed intact, unmarked. Henry and Frijole lighted matches and looked things over. Slim asked, “What’s wrong with it, Frijole?”
“Not a blamed thing. Cork up that jug—we’re travelin’.”
“I dunno,” said Slim. “I’ve rode a lot of things in m’ life, but this’n has got em all beat. How are yuh, Oscar?”