Those distant, painted mountains, looking as impossible as the back drop of a stage, held gulches and deep canyons he knew.

The closer hills he had prospected.
The mesa, spread all around him, seemed more familiar than the white apartment house in Los Angeles which Casey had lately called home.

And if the thought of the Little Woman brought with it the vague discomfort of a schoolboy playing hookey, Casey could not have regretted being here with Mack Nolan if he had tried.
They were lying up here in the shade--following the instinct of other creatures of the wild to guard against surprises--while they worked out a nice problem in moonshine.

And since the desert had never meant a monotonously placid life to Casey--who carried his problems philosophically as a dog bears patiently with fleas--he had every reason now for feeling very much at home.

When he reached mechanically into his pocket for his Bull Durham and papers, any man who knew him well would have recognized the motion as a sign that Casey was himself again, once more on his mental feet and ready to go boring optimistically into his next bunch of trouble.
Mack Nolan raised his head off his arm and glanced at Casey quizzically.
"Well--we can't catch fish if we won't cut bait," he volunteered sententiously.