From the time when his daily drives were likely to be interrupted by holdups, and once by a grizzly that reared up in the road fairly under the nose of his leaders and sent the stage off at an acute angle, blazing a trail by itself amongst the timber, Casey drifted from mountain to desert, from desert to plain and back again, blithely meeting hard luck face to face and giving it good day as if it were a friend.  For Casey was born an optimist, and misfortune never quite got him down and kept him there, though it tried hard and often, as you will presently see.  Some called him gritty.  Some said he hadn’t the sense to know when he was licked.  Either way, it made a rare little Irishman of Casey Ryan, and kept his name from becoming blurred in the memories of those who once knew him.

So in time it happened that Casey was driving a stage of his own from Pinnacle down to Lund, in Nevada, and making boast that his four horses could beat the record—­the month’s record, mind—­of any dog-gone auty-mo-bile that ever infested the trail.  Infest is a word that Casey would have used often had he known its dictionary reputation.  Having been deprived of close acquaintance with dictionaries, but having a facile imagination and some creative ability, Casey kept pace with progress and invented words of his own which he applied lavishly to all automobiles; but particularly and emphatically he applied the spiciest, most colorful ones to Fords.

Put yourself in Casey’s place, and you will understand.  Imagine yourself with a thirty-mile trip to make down a twisty, rough mountain road built in the days when men hauled ore down the mountain on wagons built to bump over rocks without damage to anything but human bones.  You are Casey Ryan, remember; you never stopped for stage robbers or grizzlies in the past, and you have your record to maintain as the hardest driver in the West.  You are proud of that record, because you know how you have driven to earn it.

You pop the lash over the ears of your leaders and go whooping down a long, straight bit of road where you count on making time.  When you are about halfway down and the four horses are running even and tugging pleasantly at the reins, and you are happy enough to sing your favorite song, which begins,

  “Hey, ole Bill!  Can-n yuh play the fiddle-o? 
  Yes, by gosh!  I—­I—­kin play a liddle-o—­”

and never gets beyond that one flat statement, around the turn below you comes a Ford, rattling all its joints trying to make the hill on “high.”  The driver honks wildly at you to give him the road—­you, Casey Ryan!  Wouldn’t you writhe and invent words and apply them viciously to all Fords and the man who invented them?  But the driver comes at you honking, squawking,—­and you turn out.

You have to, unless the Ford does; and Fords don’t.  A Ford will send a twin-six swerving sharply to the edge of a ditch, and even Casey Ryan must swing his leaders to the right in obedience to that raucous command.