He could have walked it blindfolded.

It was fallow ground, already plowed, disked, rolled, and now the last stage was to harrow it, loosening the soil, conserving the moisture.
Morgan, far to the other side of this section, had the better of the job, for his harrow was a new machine and he could ride while driving the horses.

But Kurt, using an old harrow, had to walk.

The four big horses plodded at a gait that made Kurt step out to keep up with them.
To keep up, to drive a straight line, to hold back on the reins, was labor for a man.

It spoke well for Kurt that he had followed that old harrow hundreds of miles, that he could stand the strain, that he loved both the physical sense and the spiritual meaning of the toil.
Driving west, he faced a wind laden with dust as dry as powder.