Not even a trail, since Casey was the only man who traveled it, and Casey never made tracks twice in the same place, but drove down upon it, picked himself a landmark on the opposite side and steered for it exactly as one steers a boat.

The marks he left behind him were no more than pencil marks drawn upon a sheet of buff wrapping paper.

Unless the lake was wet with one of those sporadic desert rains, you couldn't make any impression on the cement-like surface.
And when the lake was wet, you stuck where you were until wind and sun dried it for you.

Wherefore Casey plunged out upon five miles of blank, baked clay with neither road, chart nor compass to guide him.

It was the first time he had ever crossed at night, and a blanket of thin, high clouds hid the stars.
Casey thought nothing much of that,--being Casey Ryan.