He had never been over this road before, so he could no more than guess.

He knew that the ridge road led to Los Angeles, and he did not want anything of that road.

Too many travelers.

He swung into a decent-looking road that branched off to the left, wondering where it led, but not greatly caring.

He kept that road until they had climbed over a ridge or two and were in the mountains.
Soaked wilderness lay all about them, green in places where grass would grow, brushy in places, barren and scarred with outcropping ledges, pencilled with wire fences drawn up over high knolls.
In a sequestered spot where the road hugged close the concave outline of a bushy bluff, Bud slowed and turned out behind a fringe of bushes, and stopped.
"This is safe enough," he announced, "and my muscles are kinda crampy.
I'll tell the world that's been quite some spell of straight driving." Mert grunted, but Foster was inclined to cheerfulness.