It was five miles across that lake from rim to rim and taking a straight line, as Casey did, well above the crevice.  In all that distance there is not a stick, or a stone, or a bush to mark the way.  Not even a trail, since Casey was the only man who traveled it, and Casey never made tracks twice in the same place, but drove down upon it, picked himself a landmark on the opposite side and steered for it exactly as one steers a boat.  The marks he left behind him were no more than pencil marks drawn upon a sheet of buff wrapping paper.  Unless the lake was wet with one of those sporadic desert rains, you couldn’t make any impression on the cement-like surface.

And when the lake was wet, you stuck where you were until wind and sun dried it for you.  Wherefore Casey plunged out upon five miles of blank, baked clay with neither road, chart nor compass to guide him.  It was the first time he had ever crossed at night, and a blanket of thin, high clouds hid the stars.

Casey thought nothing much of that,—­being Casey Ryan.  He had before him the dim—­very dim—­outline of Starvation, and being perfectly sober, he steered a straight course, and made sure he was well away from the upper end of the crevice, and pulled the gas lever down another notch.

The little handful of engine roared beautifully and shook the car with the vibration.  Casey heaved a sigh of weariness mingled with content that the way was smooth and he need not look for chuck holes for a few minutes, at any rate.  He settled back, and his fingers relaxed on the wheel.  I think he dozed, though Casey swears he did not.

Suddenly he leaned forward, stared hard, leaned out and stared, listened with an ear cocked toward the engine.  He turned and looked behind, then stared ahead again.

“By gosh, I bet both hubs is busted!” he ejaculated under his breath,—­ Furnace Lake subdues one somehow.  “She’s runnin’ like a wolf—­but she ain’t goin’!”

He waited for a minute longer, trifling with the gas, staring and listening.  The car was shaking with the throb of the motor, but Casey could feel no forward motion.  “Settin’ here burnin’ gas like a ’lection bonfire—­she sure would think I’m drunk if she knowed it,” Casey muttered, and straddled over the side of the car to the running board.

“I wish—­to—­hell I hadn’t promised her not to cuss!” he gritted, and with one hand still on the wheel, Casey shut off the gas and stepped down.

He stepped down upon a surface sliding beneath him at the rate of close to forty miles an hour.  The Ford went on, spinning away from him in a wide circle, since Casey had unconsciously turned the wheel to the left as he let go.  The blow of meeting the hard clay stunned him just at first, and he had rolled over a couple of times before he began to regain his senses.

He lifted himself groggily to his knees and looked for the car, saw it bearing down upon him from the direction whence he had come.  Before he had time to wonder much at the phenomenon, it was upon him, over with a lurch, and gone again.