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.