Casey Ryan | Page 6

every sharp turn, and he could tell you
offhand what every sharp turn had cost him in the past month, either in
repairs to his own car or to the car that had unluckily met him without
warning. For Casey, I must tell you, habitually forgot all about that
earsplitting klaxon at his left elbow. He was always in too much of a
hurry to blow it; and anyway, by the time he reached a turn, he was
around it; there either was no car in the road or Casey had scraped paint
off it or worse and gone on. So why honk?
Far distances called Casey. In one day, he meditated, he could cover
more desert with his Ford than horses could travel in a week. An old,
half-buried passion stirred, lifted its head and smiled at him
seductively,--a dream he had dreamed of finding some of that wealth
which Nature holds so miser-like in her hills. A gold mine, or perhaps
silver or copper,--what matter which mineral he found, so long as it
spelled wealth for him? Then he would buy a bigger car and a faster car,
and he would bore farther and farther into yonder. In his past were
tucked away months on end of tramping across deserts and up
mountain defiles with a packed burro nipping patiently along in front of
him and this same, seductive dream beckoning him over the next
horizon. Burros had been slow. While he hurtled down the road from
Pinnacle to Lund, Casey pictured himself plodding through sand and
sage and over malapai and up dry canyons, hazing a burro before him.
"No, sir, the time for that is gone by. I could do in a week now what it
took me a month to do then. I could get into country a man'd hate to
tackle afoot, not knowing the water holes. I'll git me a radiator that
don't boil like a teakettle over a pitch fire, and load up with water and
grub and gas, and I'll find the Injun Jim mine, mebby. Or some other

darn mine that'll put me in the clear the rest of my life. Couldn't before,
because I had to travel too slow. But shucks! A Ford can go anywhere a
mountain goat can go. You ask anybody."
So Casey sold his stage line and the hypothetical good will that went
with it, and Pinnacle and Lund breathed long and deep and planned
trips they had refrained from taking heretofore, and wished Casey luck.
Bill Masters laid a friendly hand on his shoulder and made a suggestion
so wise that not even Casey could shut his mind against it.
"You're starting out where there won't be no Bill handy to fix what you
bust," he pointed out. "You wait over a day or two, Casey, and let me
show yuh a few things about that car. If you bust down on the desert
you'll want to know what's wrong, and how to fix it. It's easy, but you
got to know where to look for the trouble."
"Me? Say, Bill, I never had to go lookin' for trouble," Casey grinned.
"What do I need to learn how for?"
Nevertheless he remained all of that day with Bill and crammed on
mechanics. He was amazed to discover how many and how different
were the ailments that might afflict a Ford. That he had boldly--albeit
unconsciously--driven a thing filled with timers, high-tension plugs that
may become fouled and fail to "spark," carburetors that could get out of
adjustment (whatever that was) spark plugs that burned out and had to
be replaced, a transmission that absolutely must have grease or
something happened, bearings that were prone to burn out if they went
dry of oil, and a multitude of other mishaps that could happen and did
happen if one did not watch out, would have filled Casey with
foreboding if that were possible. Being an optimist to the middle of his
bones, he merely felt a growing pride in himself. He had actually
driven all this aggregation of potential internal grief! Whenever
anything had happened to his Ford auty-_mo_-bile between Pinnacle
and Lund, Casey never failed to trace the direct cause, which had
always been external rather than internal, save that time when he had
walked in and bought a new car without out probing into the vitals of
the other.

"I'd ruther have a horse down with glanders," he sighed, when Bill
finally washed the grease off his hands and forearms and rolled down
his sleeves. "But Casey Ryan's game to try anything once, and most
things the second and third time. You ask anybody. Gimme all the
hootin'-annies that's liable to wear out, Bill, and a load uh tires and
patches, and Casey'll come back and