I swallowed guiltily the request I was about to proffer.

The malpais defined itself.  We came to a wide, dry wash filled with white sand.  Bill brought the little car to a stop.

Well I know that sort of sand!  You plunge rashly into it on low gear; you buzz bravely for possibly fifty feet; you slow down, slow down; your driving wheels begin to spin—­that finishes you.  Every revolution digs a deeper hole.  It is useless to apply power.  If you are wise you throw out your clutch the instant she stalls, and thus save digging yourself in unnecessarily.  But if you are really wise you don’t get in that fix at all.  The next stage is that wherein you thrust beneath the hind wheels certain expedients such as robes, coats, and so forth.  The wheels, when set in motion, hurl these trivialities yards to the rear.  The car then settles down with a shrug.  About the time the axle is actually resting on the sand you proceed to serious digging, cutting brush, and laying causeways.  Some sand you can get out of by these methods, but not dry, stream-bed sand in the Southwest.  Finally you reach; the state of true wisdom.  Either you sit peacefully in the tonneau and smoke until someone comes along; or, if you are doubtful of that miracle, you walk to the nearest team and rope.  And never, never, never are you caught again!  A detour of fifty miles is nothing after that!

While Bill manipulated the makings, I examined the prospects.  This was that kind of a wash; no doubt of it!

“How far is the nearest crossing?” I asked, returning.

“About eight feet,” said he.

My mind, panic-stricken, flew to several things—­that bottle (I regret that I failed to record that by test its contents had proved genuine), the cornered rock we had so blithely charged, other evidences of Bill’s casual nature.  My heart sank.

“You ain’t going to tackle that wash!” I cried.

“I shore am,” said Bill.

I examined Bill.  He meant it.

“How far to the nearest ranch?”

“’Bout ten mile.”

I went and sat on a rock.  It was one of those rainbow remnants of a bygone past; but my interest in curios had waned.

Bill dove into the grimy mysteries of under the back seat and produced two blocks of wood six or eight inches square and two strong straps with buckles.  He inserted a block between the frame of the car and the rear axle; then he ran a strap around the rear spring and cinched on it until the car body, the block, and the axle made one solid mass.  In other words, the spring action was entirely eliminated.  He did the same thing on the other side.

“Climb in,” said he.

We went into low and slid down the steep clay bank into the waiting sand.  To me it was like a plunge into ice water.  Bill stepped on her.  We ploughed out into trouble.  The steering wheel bucked and jerked vainly against Bill’s huge hands; we swayed like a moving-picture comic; but we forged steadily ahead.  Not once did we falter.  Our wheels gripped continuously.  When we pulled out on the other bank I exhaled as though I, too, had lost my muffler.  I believe I had held my breath the whole way across.  Bill removed the blocks and gave her more water.  Still in low we climbed out of the malpais.