Even the strangers who came in on the Salt Lake line were quite likely to look once at the cute little narrow-gauge train with its cunning little day coach hitched behind a string of ore cars, glance at Casey's Ford stage with indifference and climb into the cunning day coach for the trip to Pinnacle.

The psychology of it passed quite over Casey's head, but his pocket felt the change.
In two weeks--perhaps it was less, though I want to be perfectly just-- Casey was back, afoot and standing bow-legged in the doorway of Bill Master's garage at Lund.
"Gimme another one of them Ford auty-_mo_-biles," he requested, grinning a little.

"I guess mebby I oughta take two or three--but I'm a little short right now, Bill.

I ain't been gitting any good luck at poker, lately." Bill asked a question or two while he led Casey to the latest model of Fords, just in from the factory.
Casey took a chew of tobacco and explained.

"Well, I had a bet up, y'see.
That red-headed bartender in Pinnacle bet me a hundred dollars I couldn't beat my own record ten minutes on the trip down.