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 this car—­as a living——­”

“Correct.”

“I should think you’d get cramped!” I burst out.

“Me?  I’m used to it.  I bet I ain’t missed three days since I got her—­and that’s about a year ago.”

He answered my questions briefly, volunteering nothing.  He had never had any trouble with the car; he had never broken a spring; he’d overhauled her once or twice; he averaged sixteen actual miles to the gallon.  If I were to name the car I should have to write advt. after this article to keep within the law.  I resolved to get one.  We chugged persistently along on high gear; though I believe second would have been better.

Presently we stopped and gave her a drink.  She was boiling like a little tea kettle, and she was pretty thirsty.

“They all do it,” said Bill.  Of course his name was Bill.  “Especially the big he-ones.  High altitude.  Going slow with your throttle wide open.  You’re all right if you got plenty water.  If not, why then ketch a cow and use the milk.  Only go slow or you’ll git all clogged up with butter.”

We clambered aboard and proceeded.  That distant dreamful mesa had drawn very near.  It was scandalous.  The aloof desert whose terror, whose beauty, whose wonder, whose allure was the awe of infinite space that could be traversed only in toil and humbleness, had been contracted by a thing that now said 29,265.