Casey made sure of that, inspecting first the bedding and food and then
the cooking utensils. Everything was complete--lavishly so--for two men
who loved comfort. Even their sweaters were there; and Casey knew they
must have discovered that the nights can be cool even though the days are
hot, in that altitude. And there were two canteens of the size usually
carried by hikers.

Casey was so worried that he could not properly enjoy his supper of pate
de foi gras and crackers, with pork and beans, plum pudding--eaten as
cake--and spiced figs and coffee. That night he turned over on his
spring-cot bed as often as if he had been lying on nettles, and when he
did sleep he dreamed horribly.

Next morning he set out with William and an emergency camp outfit to trace
if he could the missing men. The great outdoors of Nevada is not kind to
such as these, and Casey had too lately suffered to think with easy-going
optimism that they would manage somehow. They would die if they were left
to shift for themselves, and Casey could not pretend that he did not know
it.

But there was a difficulty in rescuing them, just as there had been in
rescuing the burros. Casey could not find their tracks, and so could not
follow them. He and William hunted the canyon from top to bottom and
ranged far out on the valley floor without discovering anything that could
be called the track of a man. Which was strange, too, in a country where
footprints are held for a long, long while by the soil,--as souvenirs of
man's passing, perhaps.

So it transpired that Casey at length returned to the new tent just below
the spring in the nameless canyon beyond Crazy Woman Lake. Chipmunks had
invaded the place and feasted upon an opened package of sweet crackers,
but otherwise the tent had been left inviolate. Neither Fred nor his
partner had returned. Wherefore Casey opened more cans and "made himself
to home," as he naively put it.

He was impatient to continue his journey, but since he had nothing of his
own except William, he meant to beg or buy a few things from this camp, if
either of the owners showed up. Meantime he could be comfortable, since it
is tacitly understood in the open land that a wayfarer may claim
hospitality of any man, with or without that man's knowledge. He is
expected to keep the camp clean, to leave firewood and to take nothing
away with him except what is absolutely necessary to insure his getting
safely to the next stopping place.