The highway north from the Santa Fe Railroad just west of Needles climbs an imperceptible grade across barren land to where the mesa changes and becomes potentially fertile.

Up this road, going north, a cloud of yellow dust rolled swiftly.

See at close range, the nose of a dingy Ford protruded slightly in front of the enveloping cloud--and behind it Casey Ryan, hard-eyed and with his jaw set to the fighting mood, gripped the wheel and drove as if he had a grudge against the road.
At the first signpost Casey canted a malevolent eye upward and went lurching by at top speed.

The car bulked black for a moment, dimmed, and merged into the fleeing cloud that presently seemed no more than a dust-devil whirling across the mesa.

At the second signpost Casey slowed, his eyes dwelling speculatively upon the legend: "JUNIPER WELLS 3 M" The arrow pointed to the right where a narrow, little-used trail angled crookedly away through the greasewood.