He still wore his blue overalls and jumper; his woollen cap was pulled down over his eye; on his feet were hob-nailed boots he had bought at the store in Colfax; his blanket roll was over his back; in his left hand swung the bird cage wrapped in sacks.
Just outside the town he paused, as if suddenly remembering something.
"There ought to be a trail just off the road here," he muttered.

"There used to be a trail--a short cut." The next instant, without moving from his position, he saw where it opened just before him.

His instinct had halted him at the exact spot.
The trail zigzagged down the abrupt descent of the canyon, debouching into a gravelly river bed.
"Indian River," muttered the dentist.

"I remember--I remember.

I ought to hear the Morning Star's stamps from here." He cocked his head.