More than once he was spun round and round until his senses reeled.

But all the time he was going somewhere, and I suspect that for once in his life Casey Ryan went fast enough to satisfy him.

At last he felt brush sweep past his body, and he knew that he must have been swept to the edge of the lake.

He clutched, scratched his hands bloody on the straggly thorns of greasewood, caught in the dark at a more friendly sage and gripped it next the roots.

The wind tore at him, howling.