she whinnied pleasantly at his approach. Five minutes later horse and rider were off at a swinging pace, headed, not for their own ranch, which lay twelve miles to the northward. Straight in the teeth of the wind they travelled; in the teeth of the south wind, that stung their faces like a whip-lash.
Before very long they sighted the Rumpety wagon showing plainly against the snow in the starlight. The road went most of the way down-hill, and wagon and bronco made good speed. The air grew colder every minute.
"About ten below, shouldn't you say, Pincher?"
Pincher tossed her tousled mane affirmatively.
They kept about forty yards behind the team, which went at a steady rate.
"I say, Pincher, the old beast must be laying it onto them horses, to make 'em go like that."
This time Pincher merely laid an ear back in token of sympathy.
"We'll give him a worse trouncing than that, though. Eh, Pincher?"
And Rankin fumbled with cold fingers at the whip-handle in his pocket. The reins lay across Pincher's neck. Rankin did not want his hands to get too cold "for business."
