"I guess you think I'm right red," he said. "Well, I am, an' as you see
I always dress to suit my complexion. Guess I'll warm up the road some
on a winter day like this."

"Would you mind my callin' you Red Blaze?" asked Sergeant Whitley
gravely.

"Not-a-tall! Not-a-tall! I'd like it. I guess it's sorter pictorial
an' 'maginative like them knights of old who had fancy names 'cordin' to
their qualities. People 'round here are pretty plain, an' they've never
called me nothin' but Bill. Red Blaze she is."

"An' Blaze for short. Well, then, Blaze, what kind of a road is that
we're goin' to ride on?"

"Depends on the kind of weather in which you ask the question. As it's
the fust edge of winter here in the mountains, though it ain't quite
come in the lowlands, an' as it's rained a lot in the last week, I
reckon you'll find it bad. Mebbe our hosses will go down in the road
to thar knees, but I guess they won't sink up to thar bodies. They may
stumble an' throw us, but as we'll hit in soft mud it ain't likely to
hurt us. It may rain hard, 'cause I see clouds heapin' up thar in the
west. An' if it rains the cold may then freeze a skim of ice over
the road, on which we could slip an' break our necks, hosses an' all.
Then thar are some cliffs close to the road. If we was to slip on that
thar skim of ice which we've reckoned might come, then mebbe we'd go
over one of them cliffs and drop down a hundred feet or so right swift.
If it was soft mud down below we might not get hurt mortal. But it
ain't soft mud. We'd hit right in the middle of sharp, hard rocks.