law. Great mountain ranges, so they said, stretched unpeopled and
silent, beneath the glare of the desert sun; and though Death might
linger near it was under the blue sky and away from the cold malice of
men.

From his safe in the office Wiley took out a roll of bills, all that was
left of his vanished wealth; and he took down his rifle and belt; and
then, walking softly past the body of Stiff Neck George, he cranked up
his machine and started off. Every doorway in town was crowded with
heads, craning out to see him pass, and as he turned down the main
street he saw Death Valley Charley rushing out with a flask in his hand.

"We seen ye!" he grinned as Wiley slowed down, and dropped the flask of
whiskey on the seat.

"You killed him fair!" he shouted after him, but Wiley had opened up the
throttle and the answer to his praise was a roar.

The sun was at high noon when Wiley topped the divide and glided down
the canyon towards Death Valley. He could sense it in the distance by
the veil of gray haze that hung like a pall across his way. Beyond it
were high mountains, a solid wall of blue that seemed to rise from the
depths and float, detached, against the sky; and up the winding wash
which led slowly down and down, there came pulsing waves of heat. The
canyon opened out into a broad, rocky sand-flat, shut in on both sides
by knife-edged ridges dotted evenly with brittle white bushes; and each
jagged rock and out-thrust point was burned black by the suns of
centuries.

He passed an ancient tractor, abandoned by the wayside, and a deserted,
double-roofed house; and then, just below it where a ravine came down,
he saw a sign-board, pointing. Up the gulch was another sign, still
pointing on and up, and stamped through the metal of the disk was the
single word: Water. It was Hole-in-the-Rock Springs that old Charley had
spoken about and, somewhere up the canyon, there was a hole in the
limestone cap, and beneath it a tank of sweet water. On many a scorching
day some prospector, half dead from thirst, had toiled up that well-worn
trail; but now the way was empty, the freighter's house given over to
rats, and the road led on and on.

A jagged, saw-tooth range rose up to block his way and the sand-flat
narrowed down to a deep wash; and, then, still thundering on, he
struggled out through its throat and the Valley seemed to rise up and
smite him. He stopped his throbbing motor and sat appalled at its
immensity. Funereal