It was patched up a bit in places, but nobody seemed to have gone next or nigh it for a long time.

The grass had grown up round the sliprails; it was as strange and forsaken-looking as if it belonged to a deserted station.
As we rode up a man comes out from an angle of the fence and gives a whistle.

We knew, almost without looking, that it was Warrigal.

He'd come there to meet Starlight and take him round some other way.

Every track and short cut there was in the mountains was as easy to him as the road to George Storefield's was to us.