Whereat Casey Ryan grinned, took a chew of tobacco and was
himself again.

"If they wanta come pinch me here, I'll meet 'em man to man.
Back in town no man's got a show. They pile in four deep and
gang a feller. Out here it's lick er git licked. They can all go
t' thunder. Tahell with town!"

The odor of coffee boiling in a new pot which the sagebrush fire
was fast blackening; the salty, smoky smell of bacon frying in a
new frying pan that turned bluish with the heat; the sizzle of
bannock batter poured into hot grease--these things made the
smiling mouth of Casey Ryan water with desire.

"Hell!" said Casey, breathing deep when, stomach full and
resentment toward the past blurred by satisfaction with his
present, he filled his pipe and fingered his vest pocket for a
match. "Gas stoves can't cook nothin' so there's any taste to
it. That there's the first real meal I've et in six months.
Light a match and turn on the gas and call that a fire! Hunh!
Good old sage er greasewood fer Casey Ryan, from here on!"

He laid back against the sandy sidehill, tilted his hat over his
eyes and crossed his legs luxuriously. He was in no hurry to
continue his journey. Now that he and the desert were alone
together, haste and Casey Ryan held nothing in common. For
awhile he watched a Joshua palm that looked oddly like a giant
man with one arm hanging loose at its side and another pointing
fixedly at a distant, black-capped butte standing aloof from its
fellows. Casey was tired after his night on the trail. Easy