The highway north from the Santa Fe Railroad just west of Needles climbs an imperceptible grade across barren land to where the mesa changes and becomes potentially fertile.-Up this road, going north, a cloud of yellow dust rolled swiftly.-See at close range, the nose of a dingy Ford protruded slightly in front of the enveloping cloud --and behind it Casey Ryan, hard-eyed and with his jaw set to the fighting mood, gripped the wheel and drove as if he had a grudge against the road.
At the first signpost Casey canted a malevolent eye upward and went lurching by at top speed.-The car bulked black for a moment, dimmed, and merged into the fleeing cloud that presently seemed no more than a dust-devil whirling across the mesa.-At the second signpost Casey slowed, his eyes dwelling speculatively upon the legend:
"JUNIPER WELLS 3 M"
The arrow pointed to the right where a narrow, little-used trail angled crookedly away through the greasewood.-Casey gave a deciding twist to the steering wheel and turned into the trail.
Juniper Wells is not nearly so nice a place as it sounds.-But it is the first water north of the Santa Fe, and now and then a wayfarer of the desert leaves the main highway and turns that way, driven by necessity.-It is a secluded spot, too unattractive to tempt people to linger; because of its very seclusion it therefore tempted Casey Ryan.
When a man has driven a Ford fifteen hours without once leaving the wheel or taking a drink of water or a mouthful of food, however great his trouble or his haste, his first thought will be of water, food and rest.-Even Casey's deadly rage at the diabolical trick played upon him could not hold his thoughts from dwelling upon bacon and coffee and a good sleep afterwards.
Wind and rain and more wind, buffeting that trail since the last car had passed, made "heavy going."-The Ford labored up small hills and across gullies, dipping downward at last to Juniper Wells; there Casey stopped close beside the blackened embers left by some forgotten traveler of the wild.-He slid stiffly from behind the wheel to the vacant seat beside him, and climbed out like the old man he had last night determined never to become.
He walked away a few paces, turned and stood glaring back at the car as if familiarizing himself with an object little known and hated much.
Fate, he felt, had played a shabby trick upon an honest man.
Here he stood, a criminal in the eyes of the law, a liar in the eyes of the missus.-An honest man and a truthful, here he was--he, Casey Ryan--actually afraid to face his fellow men.
"HE wasn't no friend of Bill Masters; the divil himself wouldn'ta owned him fer a friend!" snarled Casey, thinking of Kenner.
"Me-- CASEY RYAN!--with a load uh booze wished onto me--and a car that may have been stolen fer all I know--an' not a darn' nickel to my name! They can make a goat uh Casey Ryan once, but watch clost when they try it the second time!-Casey MAY be gittin' old; he might possibly have softenin' of the brain; but he'll git the skunk that done this, or you'll find his carcass layin' alongside the trail bleachin' like a blowed-out tire!-I'll trail 'im till my tongue hangs down to my knees!-I'll git 'im an' I'll drown 'im face down in a bucket of his own booze!"-Whipped by emotion, his voice rose stridently until it cracked just under a shout.
"That sounds pretty businesslike, old man," a strange voice spoke whimsically behind Casey.-"Who's all this you're going to trail till your tongue hangs down to your knees?-Going to need any help?"
Casey whirled belligerently upon the man who had walked quietly up behind him.
"Where the hell did YOU come from?" he countered roughly.
"Does it matter?-I'm here," the other parried blandly.-"But by the way!-If you've got the makings of a meal in your car--and you look too old a hand in the desert to be without grub--I won't refuse to have a snack with you.-I hate to invite myself to breakfast, but it's that or go hungry--and an empty belly won't stand on ceremony."