The Trail of the White Mule

Casey Ryan knew his desert. Also, from long and not so happy experience, he knew Fords, orthought he did.

He made the mistake, however, of buying a nearly new one and asking it toaccomplish the work of a twin six from the moment he got behind the wheel.He was fortunate in buying a demonstrator's car with a hundred miles or so to its credit.

Hearrived in Barstow before the proprietor of a supply store had gone to bed-for which he wasgrateful to the Ford.

He loaded up there with such necessities for desert prospecting as he had notwaited to buy in Los Angeles, turned short off the main highway where traffic officers might besummoned by telephone to lie in wait for him, and took the steeper and less used trail north.

He wasstill mad and talking bitterly to himself in an undertone while he drove-telling the new Ford whathe thought of city rules and city ways, and driving it as no Ford was ever meant by its maker to bedriven.The country north of Barstow is not to be taken casually in the middle of a dark night, even byCasey Ryan and a Ford.

The roads, once you are well away from help, are all pretty much alike, andall bad. And although the white, diamond-shaped signs of a beneficent automobile club are postedhere and there, where wrong turnings are most likely to prove disastrous to travelers, Casey Ryanwas in the mood to lick any man who pointed out a sign to him.

He did see one or two in spite ofhimself and gave a grunt of contempt.

So, where he should have turned to the east (his intentionbeing to reach Nevada by way of Silver Lake) he continued traveling north and didn't know it.Driving across the desert on a dark night is confusing to the most observant wayfarer.

On eitherside, beyond the light of the car, illusory forest stands for mile upon mile.

Up hill or down or acrossthe level it is the same-a narrow, winding trail through dimly seen woods.

The most familiar roadgrows strange; the miles are longer; you drive through mystery and silence and the world around youis a formless void.Dawn and a gorgeous sunrise painted out the woods and revealed barren hilltops which Caseydid not know. Because he did not know them, he guessed shrewdly that he was on his way to thewilderness of mountains and sand which lies west of Death Valley.

Small chance he had of hearingthe shop whistles blow in Las Vegas at noon, as he had expected.