Casey did not talk much.

His mind was all taken up with the details of his starting,--whether to trust his water cans on the brown burro or the gray, and whether he had taken enough "cold" shoes along for the mule.

And he set down his cup of coffee to go rummaging in a kyack just to make sure that he had the hoof rasp and shoeing hammer safe.
He was packed and moving up the little hill out of the grove before the sun had more than painted a cloud or two in the east.

A dreamer once more gone to find the end of his particular rainbow, I told myself, as I watched him out of sight.

I must admit that I hoped, down deep in the heart of me, that Casey would fall into some other unheard-of experience such as had been his portion in the past.