Being Casey Ryan, tough as hickory and wont to drive headlong to his destination, Casey did not remain in town to loiter a half a day and sleep a night and drive back the next day, as most desert dwellers did.

He hurried through with his business, filled up with gas and oil, loaded on an extra can of each, strapped his box of dynamite upon the seat beside him where he could keep an eye on it--just as if that would do any good if the tricky stuff meant to blow up!--and started back at three in the afternoon.

He would be half the night getting to camp, even though he was Casey Ryan and drove a mean Ford.

But he would be there, ready to start work at sunrise.

A man who is going to marry a widow with two children had best hurry up and strike every streak of rich ore he has in his claim, thought Casey.
All that afternoon, though the wind blew hot in his face, Casey drilled across the desert, meeting never a living thing, overtaking none.