And he surely enjoyed seeing the driver wield his long whip, and capably
handle the six reins that controlled the six spirited horses. And going
down grade Whitey would have to put his arm around the driver's middle,
because his legs were not quite long enough to reach the dashboard, and
if the body of that old-fashioned stage-coach had hit him in the middle
of the back, Whitey would have beaten the horses down the hill.

Everything went well for ninety miles, and at a certain trail the
driver pulled up and said, "Well, son, here's where you have t' wear out
your moccasins. There's your trail, bearing off t' th' right. Follow it
for twenty-five miles, an' you'll be where you want t' go."

"Twenty-five miles!" gasped Whitey. "Do you mean to say that I have to
walk twenty-five miles?"

"Sure," said the driver. "If you keep goin' good an' lively th' rest o'
th' day, you c'n hit th' Zumbro before dark, an' just one mile this side
o' th' Zumbro is Cal Smith's ranch. He'll take care o' you overnight,
an' you c'n go t' th' T Up and Down in th' mornin'."

"B--but I didn't know I had to walk," Whitey protested.

"Reck'n you do, unless you c'n ketch a jack-rabbit an' ride him," the
driver answered.

"I thought the ranch was right on the line of the stage road," Whitey
said weakly. "Bill Jordan didn't say anything about walking."

"Well, Bill's a funny cuss, an' mebbe he kept this for you as a sort o'
s'prise," the driver allowed, with a grin. "Good-bye. Giddap!" And the