I'll go gather up the Bohunks and start.

You better 'phone up to Pinnacle that Casey's on the road--and tell 'em he says it's his road's long's he's on it.

They'll know what I mean." Pinnacle did know, and waited on the sidewalk that afforded a view of the long hill where the road curled down around the head of the gulch and into town.

Much sooner than his most optimistic backers had a right to expect-- for there were bets laid on the outcome there in Pinnacle--on the brow of the hill a swirl of red dust grew rapidly to a cloud.

Like a desert whirlwind it swept down the road, crossed the narrow bridge over the deep cut at the head of the gulch where the famous Youbet mine belched black smoke, and rolled on down the steep, narrow little street.
Out of the whirlwind poked the pugnacious little brass-rimmed nose of a new Ford, and behind the windshield Casey Ryan grinned widely as he swung up to the postoffice and stopped as he had always stopped his four-horse stage,--with a flourish.