"Ain't more'n a mile and a half out the north trail.

Take that path right out there, and you can ride out inside of five minutes." There was no horse for Bull Hunter to ride.

But, having thanked his host, he stepped out into the cooler sunshine of the late afternoon.
The trail led through scattering groves of cottonwood most of the way, for it was bottom land, partially flooded in the winter season of rain, and, even in the driest and hottest part of the summer, marshy in places.

He followed the twisting little trail through spots of shadow and stretches of open sky until he reached the shack which was obviously that of the dead Armstrong.
The moment he entered the little cabin he received proof positive.
The furniture had not apparently been disturbed since the shooting.
The table still leaned crazily, as though it had not recovered from a violent shock on one side.

One chair was overturned.