As you may know, a man can't be chickenhearted and peddle hootch--an' I'm called an expert.

So you think that over, Casey--an' drive purty, see ?" Casey drove as "purty" as was possible with a six-shooter pressed irritatingly against his lowest floating rib; but he did not dwell upon the spectacle of himself found dead with a carload of booze.

He wished to heaven he hadn't let the Little Woman talk him out of packing a gun, and waited for his chance.
Young Kenner was thoughtful, brooding through the hours of darkness with his head slightly bent and his eyes, so far as Casey could determine, fixed steadily on the uneven trail where the headlights revealed every rut, every stone, every chuck-hole.

But Casey was not deceived by that quiescence.

The revolver barrel never once ceased its pressure against his side, and he knew that young Kenner never for an instant forgot that he was riding with Casey Ryan at the wheel, waiting for a chance to kill him.
By daylight, such was Casey's driving, they were well down the highway which leads to Needles and on through Arizona.