All had been well until Hashknife had contracted rheumatism, which had crippled him so badly that he suffered keenly in riding. Sleepy had doctored him to the best of his limited ability, but the pain had grown steadily worse, and they both knew that it was a case of seeking medical assistance at once.
The arrival of the midnight stage interrupted their three-handed game of seven-up. It required four horses to haul the heavy stage over the grades ahead, and the proprietor assisted in changing teams.
The driver was a big, gruff Norwegian, with a big beard and a heavy head of hair, which stood up on his head like the roach of a grizzly bear.
The only passenger was a young man, well dressed, black-haired, and with a thin, dark face. He was hardly past twenty years of age, but his mouth and eyes already showed lines of dissipation. He drank whiskey at the bar and climbed back into the stage while Hashknife and Sleepy were tying their horses at the boot.
“You got de rheu-maticks?” asked the driver, when he noticed that Hashknife had difficulty getting aboard.
“That’s what she feels like,” grunted Hashknife. “I never had it before, but they say she acts like this.”
“Yah, she does. You go to Pinnacle, eh?”
“The hot springs.”
“So? To de hot springs, eh? All right.”
His long whip snapped in the moonlight, the four horses sprang into life, and the stage to Pinnacle went lurching and grinding up the grades, swinging wide on the narrow turns, where a driver is only allowed one mistake.