Florence’s exclamation made Madeline once more attend to the approaching automobile.  It was on the slope now, some miles down the long gradual slant.  Two yellow funnel-shaped clouds of dust seemed to shoot out from behind the car and roll aloft to join the column that stretched down the valley.

“I wonder what riding a mile a minute would be like,” said Florence.  “I’ll sure make Link take me.  Oh, but look at him come!”

The giant car resembled a white demon, and but for the dust would have appeared to be sailing in the air.  Its motion was steadily forward, holding to the road as if on rails.  And its velocity was astounding.  Long, gray veils, like pennants, streamed in the wind.  A low rushing sound became perceptible, and it grew louder, became a roar.  The car shot like an arrow past the alfalfa-field, by the bunk-houses, where the cowboys waved and cheered.  The horses and burros in the corrals began to snort and tramp and race in fright.  At the base of the long slope of the foothill Link cut the speed more than half.  Yet the car roared up, rolling the dust, flying capes and veils and ulsters, and crashed and cracked to a halt in the yard before the porch.

Madeline descried a gray, disheveled mass of humanity packed inside the car.  Besides the driver there were seven occupants, and for a moment they appeared to be coming to life, moving and exclaiming under the veils and wraps and dust-shields.

Link Stevens stepped out and, removing helmet and goggles, coolly looked at his watch.

“An hour an’ a quarter, Miss Hammond,” he said.  “It’s sixty-three miles by the valley road, an’ you know there’s a couple of bad hills.  I reckon we made fair time, considerin’ you wanted me to drive slow an’ safe.”

From the mass of dusty-veiled humanity in the car came low exclamations and plaintive feminine wails.

Madeline stepped to the front of the porch.  Then the deep voices of men and softer voices of women united in one glad outburst, as much a thanksgiving as a greeting, “Majesty!”

* * *

Helen Hammond was three years younger than Madeline, and a slender, pretty girl.  She did not resemble her sister, except in whiteness and fineness of skin, being more of a brown-eyed, brown-haired type.  Having recovered her breath soon after Madeline took her to her room, she began to talk.

“Majesty, old girl, I’m here; but you can bet I would never have gotten here if I had known about that ride from the railroad.  You never wrote that you had a car.  I thought this was out West—­ stage-coach, and all that sort of thing.  Such a tremendous car!  And the road!  And that terrible little man with the leather trousers!  What kind of a chauffeur is he?”

“He’s a cowboy.  He was crippled by falling under his horse, so I had him instructed to run the car.  He can drive, don’t you think?”