Certainly his throat must be thick and hot with dust, but an overmastering purpose made him oblivious of thirst.
"Gents," he said huskily, while a gust of wind fanned a cloud of dust from his clothes, "is there anybody in this town can gimme a hoss to get to Stillwater, inside three hours' riding ?" He waited a moment, his hungry eyes traveling eagerly from face to face.

Naturally the oldest man spoke first, since this was a matter of life and death.
"Any hoss in town can get you there in that time, if you know the short way across the mountain." "How do you take it?
That's the way for me." But the old fellow shook his head and smiled in pity.

"Not if you ain't rode it before.

I used to go that way when I was a kid, but nowadays nobody rides that way except Doone.

That trail is as tricky as the ways of a coyote; you'd sure get lost without a guide." The stranger turned and followed the gesture of the speaker.