He drove on, around the rubbly base of a blackened volcano long since cold and bleak, and bored his way through the sandy stretch that leads through Patmos.
Patmos was a place of unhappy memories, but he drove through the little hamlet so fast that he scarcely thought of his unpleasant sojourn there the summer before.

Young Kenner had fallen silent again and they drove the sixty miles or so to Goffs with not a word spoken between them.
Casey spent most of that time in mentally cursing the Ford for its efficiency.

He had prayed for blowouts, a fouled timer, for something or anything or everything to happen that could possibly befall a Ford.
He couldn't even make the radiator boil.

Worst and most persistent of his discomforts was the hard pressure of that six-shooter against his side.

Casey was positive that the imprint of it would be worn as a permanent brand upon his person for the rest of his life.