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 coach whirled away, in a cloud of dust, leaving Whitey standing in the lonely road, looking off over the lonelier prairie. But nothing was to be gained by that, and he started along the trail, which really was a little-used wagon track. And as he walked he thought about Bill Jordan, and his conclusions were none too pleasant. He did not suspect that this was part of a deep-laid plot of Bill's. Rather he thought that, as the driver had said, this was one of Bill's jokes, and he could fancy Bill and Jim Walker and Buck Higgins and the others chuckling over the trick, and Whitey planned how he would get even with Bill when he returned. He little guessed how long it would be before that return, and how many events would intervene to drive thoughts of revenge from his mind. And Whitey trudged on and on, and the walking was very bad, for there had been a succession of heavy rains, almost cloud-bursts, that had made the road soggy. And for several miles the trail led through rocky hills, and there the walking was even worse, for the rains had washed the earth out of the trails, leaving a series of sharp stones that certainly were hard on moccasin-clad feet. And the harder the trail was, the harder became Whitey's opinion of Bill Jordan and his jokes.