What did he care?
What was the use of going on?
He was stuck.
The team he was driving had once belonged to the Los Muertos stables and unguided as the horses were, they took the county road towards Derrick's ranch house.

Dyke, all abroad, was unaware of the fact till, drawn by the smell of water, the horses halted by the trough in front of Caraher's saloon.
The ex-engineer dismounted, looking about him, realising where he was.
So much the worse; it did not matter.

Now that he had come so far it was as short to go home by this route as to return on his tracks.

Slowly he unchecked the horses and stood at their heads, watching them drink.
"I don't see," he muttered, "just what I am going to do." Caraher appeared at the door of his place, his red face, red beard, and flaming cravat standing sharply out from the shadow of the doorway.

He called a welcome to Dyke.
"Hello, Captain." Dyke looked up, nodding his head listlessly.
"Hello, Caraher," he answered.
"Well," continued the saloonkeeper, coming forward a step, "what's the news in town ?" Dyke told him.