“I suppose that does make a difference. Perhaps we better start walking, Miss Taylor.”
“Well, if you insist. I can let you have a horse to ride back to the AK.”
“That will be fine. We should be at your ranch in an hour.”
“But we won’t,” laughed Marion. “Any time you walk three miles an hour through this sand, the State of Arizona will give you a medal for bravery. In about fifteen minutes you’ll decide that high-heeled boots were never made for walking.”
It did not take Jimmy Legg that long to find it out. His left boot rubbed a blister on his heel, and his right boot creased deeply across his toes, adding several more blisters to his grand total. But he gritted his teeth and said nothing.
“Next time I go riding alone,” panted Jimmy, “I’m going to tie the lead-rope around my waist. Then, if my horse throws me off and tries to go home, he’ll have to drag me along.”
“You’ve got silk socks on, haven’t you?” asked Marion. Jimmy admitted that he had.
“No good,” said Marion. “Stylish, but terrible. Wear woolen socks.”
“You make me ashamed,” confessed Jimmy. “You travel along as though it was nothing, while I’m having an awful time. All I need is a handful of lead-pencils and I’d be a first-class cripple.”
The last mile was exquisite torture, but Jimmy managed to stumble into the patio of the Double Bar 8 and sit down on the well-curb.