He had seen the time when the price of a good hide meant flour and bacon and tobacco to him.

He would skin it when he stopped to eat.
Eighty miles with never a soul to call good day to Casey.

Nor shack nor shelter made for man, and only one place where there was water to wet his lips if they cracked with thirst,--unless, perchance, one of those swift desert downpours came riding on the wind, lashing the clouds with lightning.
Far ahead of Casey such a storm rolled in off the barren hills to the south.

"She's a-wettin' up that red lake a-plenty," observed Casey, squinting through the dirty windshield.

"No trail around, either, on account of the lava beds.