Ansell slid off his horse and walked slowly down the beaten path between the huts. Neither
Bogle nor I moved. We sat, with our rifles forward, watching him.
“No one about,” Ansell said, coming back. “Maybe they’re hunting or something.”
In spite of the heat, I suddenly felt my flesh creep, as if a cold hand had touched me.
“You’d better find her,” I said quietly.
“Quintl’s got a place further in the forest,” Ansell said, urging his horse forward.
We followed him.
At the edge of the forest, amid scrub and stones, stood a solid little building made of grey rock.
“This is it,” Ansell said, dismounting.
Bogle looked round. “This ain’t a country to live in,” he said uneasily. “There’s something about this dump I don’t like. Do you feel it, Bud?”