He started the car and forged out to them, making the last few rods in low gear and knowing how risky it was to stop. They were rather helpless, he had to admit, and did all the standing around while Casey did all the work. But he shoveled the rear wheels out, waded back to the tiny island of solid ground and gathered an armful of brush, covered himself with mud while he crowded the brush in front of the wheels, tied the tow rope he carried for emergencies like this, waded to the Ford, cranked, and trusted the rest to luck. The Ford moved slowly ahead until the rope between the two cars tightened, then spun wheels and proceeded to dig herself in where she stood. The other car, shaking with the tremor of its own engine, ruthlessly ground the sagebrush into the mud and stood upon it shaking and roaring and spluttering furiously.
“Nothing like sticking together, mister,” called the lady cheerfully, and he heard the music of her laughter above the churn of their motor.
“Say, ain’t your carburetor all off?” Casey leaned out to call back to the flat-chested one. “You’re smokin’ back there like wet wood.”
The man immediately stopped the motor and looked behind him.
Casey muttered something under his breath when he climbed out. He looked at his own car standing hub deep in red mud, and reached for the solacing plug of chewing tobacco. Then he thought of the lady, and withdrew his hand empty.
“We’re certainly going to stick together, mister,” she repeated her witticism, and Casey grinned foolishly.
“She’ll dry up in a few hours, with this hot sun,” he observed hearteningly. “We’ll have to pile brush in, I guess.” His glance went back to the tiny island and to his double row of tracks. He looked at the man.
“Jack, dear, you might go help the gentleman get some brush,” the lady suggested sweetly.
“This ain’t my act,” Jack dear objected. “I just about broke my spine trying to heave the car outa the mud when we first stuck. Say, I wish there was a beanery of some kind in walking distance. Honest, I’ll be dead of starvation in another hour. What’s the chance of a bite, hon?”
Contempt surged through Casey. Deep in his soul he pitied her for being tied to such an insect. Immediately he was glad that she had spirit enough to put the little runt in his place.