Didn't he ride after his own driving every day of his life?
Had he ever got killed?
Had he ever killed anybody else?
Well! What were they all yawping about, then?
Pinnacle and Lund made him tired.
"If you fellers think I can't bounce that there tin can down the road fast as any man in the country, why don't yuh pass me on the road?
You're welcome.

Just try it." No one cared to try, however.

Meeting him was sufficiently hazardous.
There were those who secretly timed their traveling so that they would not see Casey Ryan at all, and I don't think you can really call them cowards, either.

A good many had families, you know.
Casey had an accident now and then; and his tire expense was such as to keep him up nights playing poker for money to support his Ford.

You simply can't whirl into town at a thirty-mile gait--I am speaking now of Pinnacle, whose street was a gravelly creek bed quite dry and ridgy between rains--and stop in twice the car's length without scouring more rubber off your tires than a capacity load of passengers will pay for.
Besides, you run short of passengers if you persist in doing it.