Casey did not trouble with triumph. He continued to forge straight at his object. “Me? I want a Ford autymobil. I want you to put on the biggest horn you got, so I c’n be heard from here to Pinnacle and back in one hawnk. And run the damn thing out here and show me how it works, and how often yuh gotta wind it and when. I’ve got my stage line to take care of, and I’ve missed a run on account of being pushed off’n the road. I’ll sign papers tonight when I get in. Show me the biggest horn yuh got.”
Thus was the trade effected, with much speed and few preliminaries, because the garage man knew Casey well, and had seen him in action when his temper was up. He adjusted a secondhand horn he happened to have; one of those terrific things warranted to lift a medium-sized man off his feet at one hundred yards or money refunded. Casey tried it out on himself, walking down the street several doors and standing with his back turned while the garage man squawked at him.
“She’ll do,” he approved, coming back. “What’ll kink Casey’s backbone oughta be good enough for anybody. Bring her out here and show me how you run the darn thing. I’ve got a load of bohunk muckers to take up to the Blackbird Mine. Meant to haul ’em up to-morrow morning, but I guess I’ll take ’em this afternoon for practice.”
Naturally, the garage man was somewhat perturbed at the thought. The road from Pinnacle to Lund was the kind that brings a sigh of relief to many a seasoned driver after it has been safely driven. It is narrow in spots, has steep pitches both ways, and in the thirty miles there are sixteen sharp turns and others not so sharp.
“Better let me write you out some insurance on the car, Casey,” he suggested, not half as jokingly as he tried to seem.
Casey turned and looked him in the eye. “Say! Never you mind about insuring this car. What you want to do is insure the cars I’m liable to meet up with!”
The garage man said no more about insurance, but took Casey down the cañon where the road was walled in on both sides by cliffs and was fairly straight and level, and proceeded to give him a lesson in driving. Casey made two round trips along that half mile of road, killed the engine, and figured out for himself how to start it again.
“She’s tender bitted, and I do hate a horse that neckreins in harness,” he criticized. “All right, Bill. I’ll put you down at the garage and go gather up the bohunks and start. Better phone up to Pinnacle that Casey’s on the road and it’s his road so long as he’s on it. They’ll know what yuh mean.”
Pinnacle did know, and waited on the sidewalk that afforded a view of the long hill where the road swung down around the head of the gulch into town.
Much sooner than his most optimistic backers had a right to expect—for there were bets laid on the outcome there in Pinnacle—a swirl of red dust on the brow of the hill grew rapidly to a cloud. Like a desert whirlwind it swept down the road, crossed the narrow bridge over the deep cut at the head of the gulch, and rolled on down the steep little, narrow street. Out of the whirlwind emerged the pugnacious little nose of a new Ford, and behind the windshield Casey Ryan grinned widely as he swung up to the post office and stopped with a lurch that sent the insecure fourth bohunk in the tonneau hurtling forward into the front. Casey threw up an elbow and caught the bohunk in the collar button and held him from going through the windshield. The others made haste to scramble out, until Casey stopped them with a yell that froze them where they were.