So he pitched his tent within carrying distance from the spring, thanked the god of mechanics that an automobile neither eats nor drinks when it does not work, and set out to find his fortune.
Casey knew there was a mining camp on the high slope of Barren Butte.

He knew the name of the camp, which was Lucky Lode, and he knew the foreman there--knew him from long ago in the days when Casey was what he himself confessed to be wild.

In reaching Starvation Mountains, Casey had driven for fifteen miles within plain sight of Lucky Lode.

But gas is precious when you are a hundred miles from a garage, and since business did not take him there Casey did not drive up the five-mile hill to the Lucky Lode just to shake hands with the foreman and swap a yarn or two.

Instead, he headed down on to the bleached, bleak oval of Furnace Lake and forged across it as straight as he could drive toward Starvation Mountains.
But the next time Casey made the trip--needing supplies, powder, fuse, caps and so on--Fate took him by the ear and led him to a lady.