A man having three horses in tow was headed straight for the wagon.
“Whiffin says I’m to tie this here bunch o’ nags on the back o’ the next wagon out,” explained the man. “Is that you, Rodgers?”
“It sure ain’t nobody else,” growled Joe. “Fasten ’em up quick, Tracy. The elephants has went a’ready.”
Tracy performed his task with commendable celerity.
“All right, Joe,” he presently called. “Let ’er go!”
“Git ap!” roared the driver.
The dull thud of hoofs striking against the turf sounded; the leaders swung around, plunged and reared. Down came an iron shoe, splintering a stone and sending off a shower of sparks. Joe’s whip swished viciously, cracking like pistol shots.
“Whoa boy—haw! Hi, hi! Steady, Billikin! Git over, there, you pesky brute! Whoa boy!”
It required an immense amount of vocal exercise, as well as tugging at the reins and many passes with the whip to get the huge bulk in motion. The wagon suddenly gave an alarming creak, then lurched forward. Joe yelled like a wild Indian. The horses stamped and strained with all their might, and in a few moments more the vehicle was bumping and jolting over the uneven ground.
“This here wagon’s chuck full o’ eats for the hosses,” remarked Joe, when the road was reached.