man, heavy to the point of fatness, yelling hoarse threats and
incoherent objurgations.

Casey threw down his armful of dead brush and went after the lead
burro which was blazing itself a trail in an entirely different
direction. The lead burro had four large canteens strapped
outside its pack, and Casey was growing so short of water that he
had begun to debate seriously the question of draining the
radiator on the morrow.

I don't suppose many of you would believe the innate cussedness
of a burro when it wants to be that way. Casey hazed this one to
the hills and back down the trail for half a mile before he
rushed it into a clump of greasewood and sneaked up on it when it
thought itself hidden from all mortal eyes. After that he dug
heels into the sand and hung on. Memory resurrected for his need
certain choice phrases coined in times of stress for the ears of
burros alone. Luxury and civilization and fifty-five thousand
dollars and a wife were as if they had never been. He was Casey
Ryan, the prospector, fighting a stubborn donkey all over a
desert slope. He led it conquered back to the Ford, tied it to a
wheel and lifted off the four canteens, gratified with their
weight and hoping there were more on the other burro. He had
quite forgotten that he had meant to lick the first man he saw,
and grinned when the fat man came toiling back with the other
animal.

By the time their coffee was boiled and their bacon fried, each
one knew the other's past history and tentative plans for the
future, censored and glossed somewhat by the teller but received