“At this rate we’ll get there before six o’clock,” I remarked, hopefully.

“Oh, this is County Highway!” said Bill.

As we crawled along, still on high gear—­that tin car certainly pulled strongly—­a horseman emerged from a fold in the hills.  He was riding a sweat-covered, mettlesome black with a rolling eye.  His own eye was bitter, and likewise the other features of his face.  After trying in vain to get the frantic animal within twenty feet of our mitrailleuse, he gave it up.

“Got anything for me?” he shrieked at Bill.

Bill leisurely turned off the switch, draped his long legs over the side of the car, and produced his makings.

“Nothing, Jim.  Expaicting of anything?”

“Sent for a new grass rope.  How’s feed down Mogallon way?”

“Fair.  That a bronco you’re riding?”

“Just backed him three days ago.”

“Amount to anything?”

“That,” said Jim, with an extraordinary bitterness, “is already a gaited hoss.  He has fo’ gaits now.”

“Four gaits,” repeated Bill, incredulously.  “I’m in the stink wagon business.  I ain’t aiming to buy no hosses.  What four gaits you claim he’s got?”

“Start, stumble, fall down and git up,” said Jim.

Shortly after this joyous rencontre we topped the rise, and, looking back, could realize the grade we had been ascending.

The road led white and straight as an arrow to dwindle in perspective to a mere thread.  The little car leaped forward on the invisible down grade.  Again I anchored myself to one of the top supports.  A long, rangy fowl happened into the road just ahead of us, but immediately flopped clumsily, half afoot, half a-wing, to one side in the brush, like a stampeded hen.

“Road runner,” said Bill, with a short laugh.  “Remember how they used to rack along in front of a hoss for miles, keeping just ahead, lettin’ out a link when you spurred up?  Aggravatin’ fowl!  They got over tryin’ to keep ahead of gasoline.”

In the white alkaline road lay one lone, pyramidal rock.  It was about the size of one’s two fists and all its edges and corners were sharp.  Probably twenty miles of clear space lay on either flank of that rock.  Nevertheless, our right front wheel hit it square in the middle.  The car leaped straight up, the rock popped sidewise, and the tire went off with a mighty bang.  Bill put on the brakes, deliberately uncoiled himself, and descended.

“Seems like tires don’t last no time at all in this country,” he remarked, sadly.  He walked around the car and began to examine the four wrecks he carried as spares.  After some inspection of their respective merits, he selected one.  “I just somehow kain’t git over the notion she ought to sidestep them little rocks and holes of her own accord,” he exclaimed.  “A hoss is a plumb, narrow-minded critter, but he knows enough for that.”

While he changed the tire—­which incidentally involved patching one of half a dozen over-worn tubes—­I looked her over more in detail.  The customary frame, strut rods, and torsion rods had been supplemented by the most extraordinary criss-cross of angle-iron braces it has ever been my fortune to behold.  They ran from anywhere to everywhere beneath that car.  I began to comprehend her cohesiveness.