Junior whined and insisted that he wanted b-bacon for his b-bunny, and the man hushed him querulously and asked Casey what the chances were for getting under way.  Casey repacked a lightened bag, emptied the coffee grounds, shouldered his canteen and waded back to the cars and to the problem of red mud with an unbelievable quality of tenacity.

The man followed and asked him if he happened to have any smoking tobacco, afterwards he begged a cigarette paper, and then a match.  “The dog-gone helpless, starved bunch!” Casey muttered, while he dug out the wheels of his Ford, and knew that his own haste must wait upon the need of these three human beings whom he had never seen until an hour ago, of whose very existence he had been in ignorance, and who would probably contribute nothing whatever to his own welfare or happiness, however much he might contribute to theirs.

I do not say that Casey soliloquised in this manner while he was sweating there in the mud under hot midday.  He did think that now he would no doubt miss the night train to Los Angeles, and that he would not, after all, be purchasing glad raiment and a luxurious car on the morrow.  He regretted that, but he did not see how he could help it.  He was Casey Ryan, and his heart was soft to suffering even though a little of the spell cast by the woman’s blue eyes and her golden hair had dimmed for him.

He still thought her a beautiful woman who was terribly mismated, but he felt vaguely that women with beautiful golden hair should not drink their coffee aloud, or calmly turn up the bottom of their skirts that they might use the underside of the hem for a napkin after eating bacon.  I do not like to mention this; Casey did not like to think of it, either.  It was with reluctance that he reflected upon the different standard imposed by sex.  A man, for instance, might wipe his fingers on his pants and look the world straight in the eye,—­but dog-gone it, when a lady’s a lady, she ought to be a lady.

Later Casey forgot for a time the incident of the luncheon on Red Lake.  With infinite labor and much patience he finally extricated himself and the show people, with no assistance from them save encouragement.  He towed them to dry land, untied and put away his rope and then discovered that he had not the heart to drive on at his usual hurtling pace and leave them to follow.  There was an ominous stutter in their motor, for one thing, and Casey knew of a stiffish hill a few miles this side of Rhyolite, so he forced himself to set a slow pace which they could easily follow.

CHAPTER VII

It was full sundown when they reached Rhyolite, which was not a town but a camp beside a spring, usually deserted.  Three years before, a mine had built the camp for the accommodation of the truck drivers who hauled ore to Lund and were sometimes unable to make the trip in one day.  Casey, having adapted his speed to that of the decrepit car of the show people, was thankful that they arrived at all.  He still had a little flour and coffee and salt, and he hoped there was enough grease left on the bacon paper to grease the skillet so that bannocks would not stick to the pan.  He also hoped that his flour would hold out under the onslaught of their appetites.