"Drive around it, then," growled Foster, lifting his chin to
stare ahead through the fogged windshield. "We've got hot coffee
here, and there's plenty to eat. Enough for two meals. How far
have we come since we started?"

"Far enough to be called crazy if we go much farther without a
square meal," Bud snapped. Then he glanced at the rumpled
newspaper and added carelessly, "Anything new in the paper?"

"No!" Mert spoke up sharply. "Go on. You're doing all right so
far--don't spoil it by laying down on your job!"

"Sure, go on!" Foster urged. "We'll stop when we get away from
this darn burg, and you can rest your legs a little while we
eat."

Bud went on, straight through the middle of the town without
stopping. They scurried down a long, dismal lane toward a low-
lying range of hills pertly wooded with bald patches of barren
earth and rock. Beyond were mountains which Bud guessed was the
Tehachapi range. Beyond them, he believed he would find desert
and desertion. He had never been over this road before, so he
could no more than guess. He knew that the ridge road led to Los
Angeles, and he did not want anything of that road. Too many
travelers. He swung into a decent-looking road that branched off
to the left, wondering where it led, but not greatly caring. He
kept that road until they had climbed over a ridge or two and
were in the mountains. Soaked wilderness lay all about them,
green in places where grass would grow, brushy in places, barren