It's only seven or eight miles." "Hit 'er up, Chip," cried the red-headed chap; "you won't find me taking any of your dust." Once more they got their machines in motion along the trail.

The going was none too good, and Merry got his machine going at a pace that might have been reckless had not the brilliant, far-flung rays of the searchlight laid the way so clearly before his eyes.
"That the best you can do ?" called Clancy, whirring along at his chum's side.
"This will do," Frank answered.

"We're not on a boulevard, remember." Clancy gave a laugh of sheer exhilaration, for the thrill of that wild dash through the night and across the desert was in his veins.
"We'll be running Porter down before we can see him, Chip," he called, the wind of their flight casting his words behind him in splintering echoes.
But Merriwell had no fear of that.

If Nick Porter had ridden hard, he would already have had time to cover the distance between the mine and McGurvin's.
McGurvin's ranch was the last place, short of Happenchance in the Picket Post Mountains, where water could be secured.

Surely, if Porter had come that way, he would stop at the ranch.