It had been purely subconscious; Casey had expected the exact location of the mine in words, and perhaps with a crudely accurate map of Jim's making.

But now he remembered Jim's words, certain motions made by the skinny hands, and from them he laid his course.
"He was layin' right here--facin' south," Casey told himself, squatting on his heels within the rock circle that marked the walls of the tepee.

"He said, 'Got heap big gol' mine, me--' and he turned his hand that way." Casey squinted at the distant blue ridge that was an unnamed spur of the Tippipahs.

"It's far enough so an old buck like him couldn't make it very well.

Fifteen mile, anyway--mebby twenty or twenty-five.