"Gosh," Old Heck exclaimed, "that bad already! What'll he be in week?"

"Did you speak, Uncle Josiah?" Carolyn asked.

"Huh--no, I--Skinny just thought I was going to hit a rock!" he
answered, and giving the engine more gas, he headed the car, at a
thirty-mile clip, toward the east and the Quarter Circle KT.

The party rode in silence. The speed of the car and the fan of the warm
wind against their faces made conversation difficult. A mile from Eagle
Butte they crossed the long, low, iron-railed bridge over the Cimarron
River and climbed out on to the bench away from the bottom lands. From
that point on to the Quarter Circle KT the road followed the brow of the
bench on the south side of the river. It was smooth and good.

Carolyn June thrilled at the bigness of it all as they swept quickly
past the irrigated district close to the town and sped out on the open
unfenced range. For miles the country was level with here and there
arroyos cross-sectioning into the river valley. Long stretches with the
barest undulations made driving a joy and the winding road was a natural
speedway. Scattered over the plain were dusters of mesquit and in the
low sags where moisture was near the surface patches of thorns. Carolyn
June loved the width and breadth of the great range, strange and new to
her. Here was freedom sweeping as the winds of heaven. Dimly, on the
southern horizon she could see the blue outline of Sentinel Mountain
standing alone out on the plain. To the left green pasture-lands lay
along the river. A narrow strip of cottonwood trees marked the curving
path of the Cimarron. Beds of white quicksand, treacherous and fatal and
dreaded by every rider of the open country could be seen, occasionally,