arc of his vision was a ledge, ending in a flat-topped boulder.

The ledge blocked his view, except that he could see trees and a
higher peak of rocks beyond it. He made his way cautiously
toward the ledge, his eyes fixed upon the boulder. A huge,
sloping slab of the granite outcropping it seemed, scaly with
gray-green fungus in the cracks where moisture longest remained;
granite ledge banked with low junipers warped and stunted and
tangled with sage. The longer Casey looked at the boulder, the
less he saw that seemed unnatural in a country filled with
boulders and outcroppings and stunted vegetation.

But the longer he looked at it, the stronger grew his animal
instinct that something was wrong. He waited for a time--a long
time indeed for Casey Ryan to wait. There was no stir anywhere
save the sweep of the wind blowing steadily from the west.

He crept forward, halting often, eyeing the boulder and its
neighboring ledge, distrust growing within him, though he saw
nothing, heard nothing but the wind sweeping through branches and
bush. Casey Ryan was never frightened in his life. But he was
Irish born--and there's something in Irish blood that will not
out; something that goes beyond reason into the world of unknown
wisdom.

It's a tricksy world, that realm of intuitions. For this is what
befell Casey Ryan, and you may account for it as best pleases
you.

He circled the rock as a wolf will circle a coiled rattler which