Blake was in despair. He knew that it was no use to remonstrate: especially as even Teddy seemed to agree. Teddy was never any good in a free-for-all; he always took Mary’s side. Blake didn’t think of criticizing him for it. Teddy was simply sometimes a baffling adult and sometimes a companion. It was all in the way you caught him. He himself, still dependent on adult decisions, accepted his bad luck without question. They found Shiprock at evening, and left Mary and Gwendolyn in their rooms while they strolled around the town, staring. It was thus they came across the truck-driver who was willing to take passengers into the country with him. He was chatting with the owner of one of the trading-posts, and he asked them about the roads. “They were fine until we got here,” Blake said, aggrieved. “Now the trip’s over. He”—with a nod at Teddy—“backed out.” The truck-driver pushed his hat back. “He’s got sense,” he said. “You don’t want to go driving these roads if you don’t know ’em. Where were you aiming to go?” “Oh, around,” said Teddy. “To see the country. We’ve got a couple of women who want to stop, that’s the trouble. They think it’s just as good right here.” “They think they’ve had their trip,” said Blake. “They want to rest here a few days.” “Well, say,” said the driver. “Come on with me. I’ll drop you off at Clearwater, if you like, and you can catch the mail truck back on Wednesday. There’s plenty room in the car.” “Where’s Clearwater?” Blake asked eagerly. “Oh, it’s fifty mile out. You’ll get a sight of the country going up there. I start at ten tomorrow morning soon as I get loaded. Take it or leave it.” They took it immediately, and hurried home to argue with the ladies. It was raining when they started, and McLean swore in a cheerful mechanical manner. “We won’t make any time worth bragging about,” he said. For a long time they drove down a mere path across flat country, but when the road started to climb they entered a pine wood. It was lovely in the rain; clear spaces were bright green and under the trees the ground was brown and clean-looking. McLean said it was bear country. They saw no bear, but sometimes a rabbit ran ahead of them, scurrying from side to side of the road and just missing death when he achieved the idea of diving into the underbrush. Now and then they slowed up to let the tail end of a flock of sheep and goats go by, scrambling and crowding and making silly noises and poisoning the air with their stench. Sometimes a Navajo cantered past on horseback, raising his hand in salute and for a moment skipping the steady beat of his whip on the horses’ flanks. The truck panted louder, hesitated, ploughed ahead on a momentary level and groaned in a humming falsetto above the grind of the engine. “She’s a bitch of a hill,” said McLean.