way of doubling forward in the seat, was shaded by a large hat which, together with the canvas top of the wagon—of the kind called a hack in Texas—put him in such gloom Dunham could not make anything out of his face. He could see the end of what appeared to be an unlit cigar sticking out of it, and hear the clucking that issued from that region whenever the horses slackened their brisk trot.
Dunham did not attempt any conversation with the driver, who held his tongue in that somber fashion while they proceeded four or five miles. The conversation in the back seat gradually fell to a lower, more intimate, pitch, little of it reaching Dunham's ears distinctly. He tried not to hear, feeling himself and his doings in Pawnee Bend the subject of this confidential talk.
They pitched suddenly over the brow of a long swell, beginning a quick descent into what appeared to be a broad valley: A river serpentined through it, the course marked in the moonlight by the dark border of trees at its brink. The Arkansas, Dunham knew it to be, river of erratic flood-waters and engulfing sands. The suddenly accelerated gait of the horses, and a light twinkling among the trees, was warrant that they were approaching the end of the drive.
It was at this stage of the journey that the driver found his speech. He preluded it with a chuckle, as if it started deep and sent out bubbles.
"They've got a good joke on you over at Pawnee Bend," he said, still doubled forward, elbows on his thighs, as if he addressed his team.
