accomplish the work of a twin six from the moment he got behind
the wheel.

He was fortunate in buying a demonstrator's car with a hundred
miles or so to its credit. He arrived in Barstow before the
proprietor of a supply store had gone to bed--for which he was
grateful to the Ford. He loaded up there with such necessities
for desert prospecting as he had not waited to buy in Los
Angeles, turned short off the main highway where traffic officers
might be summoned by telephone to lie in wait for him, and took
the steeper and less used trail north. He was still mad and
talking bitterly to himself in an undertone while he
drove--telling the new Ford what he thought of city rules and
city ways, and driving it as no Ford was ever meant by its maker
to be driven.

The country north of Barstow is not to be taken casually in the
middle of a dark night, even by Casey Ryan and a Ford. The
roads, once you are well away from help, are all pretty much
alike, and all bad. And although the white, diamond-shaped signs
of a beneficent automobile club are posted here and there, where
wrong turnings are most likely to prove disastrous to travelers,
Casey Ryan was in the mood to lick any man who pointed out a sign
to him. He did see one or two in spite of himself and gave a
grunt of contempt. So, where he should have turned to the east
(his intention being to reach Nevada by way of Silver Lake) he
continued traveling north and didn't know it.

Driving across the desert on a dark night is confusing to the
most observant wayfarer. On either side, beyond the light of the