While the Irishman was again uttering his threat, the driver, with a
skillful twist, rolled a cigarette and, leaning forward just in the
nick of time, he deliberately shared the half-match with his
blustering companion. In that instant the blue eyes above the pipe
looked straight into the black eyes above the cigarette, and a faint
twinkle of approval met a serious glance of understanding.

Gathering up his reins and sorting them carefully, the driver spoke
to his team: "You, Buck! Molly! Jack! Pete!" The mules heaved ahead.
Again the silence of the world-old hills was shattered by the
rattling rumble of the heavy-tired wagon and the ring and clatter of
iron-shod hoofs.

Stolidly the Irishman pulled at the short-stemmed pipe, the wagon
seat sagging heavily with his weight at every jolt of the wheels,
while from under his tattered hat rim his fierce eyes looked out
upon the wild landscape with occasional side glances at his silent,
indifferent companion.

Again the team was halted for a rest on the heavy grade. Long and
carefully the Irishman looked about him and then, turning suddenly
upon the still silent driver, he gazed at him for a full minute
before saying, with elaborate mock formality: "It may be, Sorr, that
bein' ye are sich a hell av a conversationalist, ut wouldn't tax yer
vocal powers beyand their shtrength av I should be so baould as to
ax ye fwhat the divil place is this?"

The soft, slow drawl of the other answered: "Sure. That there is No
Man's Mountains ahead."