Casey had managed to whip the husband, but the difference in weight had given him the victory by a narrower margin than Casey liked. Besides, the fight delayed him so that he started out ten minutes late. He was reflecting upon the injustice of the case, and asking himself if he, Casey, were to blame because a woman fainted inconveniently and missed her train, and had answered emphatically that he was not, and that he would like to have given her husband another good punch, and would have given it, if he’d had the time—when the Ford came chugging around the turn and honked at him impertinently.
Casey popped his whip, yelled and charged straight down the road. He would make that Ford turn out, or bust something. He would show them that Casey was Casey Ryan. Wherefore Casey was presently extricating his leaders from his wheelers, ten feet below the grade. On the road above, the Ford stood still with one front fender cocked up rakishly and a headlight smashed, mulishly balking while the driver cranked and cranked and swore down at Casey, who squinted into the sun that he might see the man he likewise cursed.
They were a long while there exchanging disagreeable opinions of one another. When the leaders had veered to the edge of the grade at the last second before the collision, and the wheelers had responded, the left front wheel of the stage did something to the Ford. It would not start, and Casey finally freed his four horses, mounted one and led the others and so proceeded to Lund, as mad a little Irishman as Lund ever beheld.
“That settles it,” he snorted when the town came into view in the flat below. “They’ve pushed Casey off’n the grade for the first time and the last time! What pushin’ and crowdin’ and squawkin’ is done from now on, it’ll be Casey that’s doin’ it—mind what I’m telling yuh, now! Faint? I’ll learn ’em what to faint over. They can’t hand it to Casey. They never did and they never will. If it’s Fords goin’ to rule the country from now on, and take the road away from the horses, you can climb a tree if yuh like, and watch how Casey’ll drive the livin’ tar outa one! Go ’em one better—that’s Casey Ryan, and you can go tell ’em I said so. Hawnk! Wait till yuh hear the hawnkin’ Casey’ll be doin’!”
I tell you his horses knew the mind of Casey and all his fell purpose by the time he rode into town and up to one of those ubiquitous “Ford Agencies” that write their curly tailed blue lettering in one endless chain from the high nose of Maine to the shoulder of Cape Flattery.
“Gimme one of them gol-darned blankety bing-bing Ford autymobils,” he commanded the garage owner who came to meet Casey amicably, in his shirt sleeves. “Here’s four horses I’ll trade yuh, with what’s left of the harness. And up at White Ghost turn you’ll find a good wheel off the stage, ’t I’ll make yuh a present of.” He slid down from the sweaty back of his horse and stood bow-legged and determined before the garage owner.
“Well—there ain’t much sale for horses, Casey, and I ain’t got a place to keep ’em, nor anything to feed ’em. I’ll sell yuh a Ford.”
Casey glanced over his shoulder to make sure the horses were standing quietly, dropped the bridle rein and advanced a step, his Irish eyes fixed upon the face of the other.
“You trade,” he stated flatly.
The Ford man backed a little. “Sure, Casey. What yuh want for the four, just as they stand?”