Over the top of the hill they swung back into another valley, a fairyland in the blue of the moonlight. The road was rough, badly engineered as to grades, but the driver swore in his own tongue, plied his long whip without stint or threw his weight on a protesting brake on the steep pitches.
The young man had nothing to say. He smoked innumerable cigarettes and huddled down in his seat. Hashknife suffered in silence, while Sleepy whistled unmusically between his teeth and cursed the driver.
“He’s hit every rock so far,” he told Hashknife. “I’ll bet yuh even money that this damned equipage don’t hold together to reach Pinnacle.”
Sleepy turned to the young man. “Have you ever been over this road, pardner?”
The young man removed his cigarette. “No,” he said.
“Think you’ll ever go agin’?”
“Maybe.”
Sleepy laughed and stretched out his legs. “You won’t never get hung for talkin’ too much.”
“What do you mean?” asked the stranger coldly.