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 it does not see.

Beyond the rock, built close against it so that the rear wall must have been the face of the ledge, a little rock cabin squatted secretively.