That was about the limit of Casey's inaction when he smelled a mystery or a scrap.

This had the elements of both, and he started out forthwith to trail down the Ford, wiping crumbs from his mouth and getting out his plug of tobacco as he went.
In broken country sounds are deceptive as to direction, but Casey was lucky enough to walk straight toward the spot, which was over a hump in the gulch, a sort of backbone dividing it in two narrow branches there at its mouth.

He had noticed when he rode toward it that it was ridged in the middle, and had chosen the left-hand branch for no reason at all except that it happened to be a little smoother traveling for his animals.
He topped the ridge and came full upon a camp below, almost within calling distance from where he first sighted it.

There was a stone hut that could not possibly contain more than two small rooms, and there was a tent pitched not far away.

There seemed to be a spring just beyond the cabin.
Casey saw the silver gleam of water there, and a strip of green grass, and a juniper bush or two.
But these details were not important at the moment.