Casey set his course by the stars and fared forth across the desert, meaning to pass through the lower end of Death Valley by night, on a trail he knew, and so plod up toward the Tippipah country.
He was happy.

He owed no man a nickel, he had grub enough to last him three months if he were careful, he had a body tough as seasoned hickory, and he was headed for that great no-man's-land which is the desert.

More, he was actually upon the trail of his dream that he had dreamed years before up in the Yellowstone.

An old, secretive Indian was going to find his match when Casey Ryan plodded over his horizon and halted beside his fire.
By the way, don't blame me for showing a fondness for gloom and gore when you read the names Casey carried in his mind the next few weeks.

Casey crossed Death Valley and the Funeral Mountains--or a spur of them--and headed up toward Spectre Range, going by way of Deadman's Spring, where he filled his water cans.