After a time he drew back to a more moderate gait, but still the
narrow firs shot smoothly and swiftly past him for well over half an
hour until the twilight settled into darkness and the treetops moved
past the horseman against a sky alive with the brighter stars of the
mountains. He reached the hills. The trail tangled into zigzag lines,
tossing up and down, dodging here and there. And in one of these elbow
turns, a team of horses loomed huge and black above him, and against the
stars behind the hilltop it seemed as though the team were stepping out
into the thin air. Behind them, Lew Hervey made out the low body of the
buckboard and on the seat a squat, bunched figure with head dropped so
low that the sombrero seemed to rest flat on the shoulders.
Hervey raised his hand with a shout of relief: "Hey, Jordan!"
The brakes crashed home, but the impetus of the downgrade bore the wagon
to the bottom of the little slope before it came to a stop and Hervey
was choked by the cloud of dust. He fanned a clear path for his voice.
"It's me. Hervey." And he came close to the wagon.
"Well, Lew?" queried the uninterested voice of the master.
Hervey leaned a little from the saddle and peered anxiously at the "big
boss.
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