e cupola, leaned far out and waved his hat as the
caboose flicked by.

CHAPTER TWELVE

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