n lost or thrown away. But she was hitting on all four. I
glanced at the speedometer dial. It registered the astonishing total of
29,250 miles.

We swung out the end of the main street and sailed down a road that
vanished in the endless gentle slope of a "sink." Beyond the sink the
bank rose again, gently, to gain the height of the eyes at some _mesas_.
Well I know that sort of country. One journeyed for the whole day, and
the _mesas_ stayed where they were; and in between were successively
vast stretches of mesquite, or alkali, or lava outcrops, or _sacatone_
bottoms, each seeming, while one was in it, to fill all the world
forever, without end; and the day's changes were of mirage and the
shifting colours of distant hills.

It was soon evident that my friend's ideas of driving probably coincided
with his ideas of going up a mountain. When a mounted cowboy climbs a
hill he does not believe in fussing with such nonsense as grades; he
goes straight up. Similarly, this man evidently considered that, as
roads were made for travel and distance for annihilation, one should
turn on full speed and get there. Not one hair's breadth did he deign to
swerve for chuck-hole or stone; not one fractional mile per hour did he
check for gully or ditch. We struck them head-on, bang! did they happen
in our way. Then my head hit the disreputable top. In the mysterious
fashion of those who drive freight wagons my companion remained
imperturbably glued to his seat. I had neither breath nor leisure for
the country or conversation.

Thus one half hour. The speedometer dial showed the figures 29,260. I
allowed myself to think of a possible late lunch at my friend's ranch.

We slowed down. The driver advanced the hand throttle the full sweep of
the quadrant, steered with his knees, and produced the "makings." The
faithful little motor continued to hit on all four, but in slow and
painful succession, each explosion sounding like a pistol shot. We had
passed already the lowest point of the "sink," and were climbing the
slope on the other side. The country, as usual, looked perfectly level,
but the motor knew different.

"I like to hear her shoot," said the driver, after his first cigarette.
"That's why I chucked the muffler. Its plumb lonesome out yere all by
yourself. A hoss is different."

"Who you riding for?"

"Me? I'm riding for me. This outfit is mine."

It didn't sound reasonable; but that's what I heard.

"You mean you drive thi