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It was built of rough logs, the chinks once closed with mud which had
fallen away. The door stood open, and his entrance into its darkness was
followed by the scurrying of many little feet. Bassett unstrapped his
raincoat from the saddle with fingers numb with cold, and flung it to
the ground. He uncinched and removed the heavy saddle, hobbled his horse
and removed the bridle, and turned him loose with a slap on the flank.
"For the love of Mike, don't go far, old man," he besought him. And was
startled by the sound of his own voice.
By the light of his candle lantern the prospects were extremely poor.
The fir branches in the double-berthed bunk were dry and useless, the
floor was crumbling under his feet, and the roof of the lean-to had
fallen in and crushed the rusty stove. In the cabin itself some one had
recently placed a large flat stone in a corner for a fireplace, with two
slabs to back it, and above it had broken out a corner of the roof as
a chimney. Bassett thought he saw the handwork of some enterprising
journalist, and smiled grimly.
He set to work with the resource of a man who had learned to take what
came, threw the dry bedding onto the slab and set a match to it, brought
in portions of the lean-to roof for further supply for the fire, opened
a can of tomatoes and set it on the edge of the hearth to heat, and
sliced bacon into his diminutive frying-pan.
It was too late for any examination that night. He ate his supper from
the rough table, drawing up to it a broken chair, and afterwards brought
in more wood for his fire. Then, with a lighted cigar, and with his
boots steaming on the hearth, he sat in front of the blaze and fell into
deep study.
He was aching in every muscle when he finally stretched out on the bare
boards of the lower bunk. While he slept small furry noses appeared in
the openings in the broken floor, to be followed by little bodies that
moved cautiously out into the open. He roused once and peered over the
edge of the bunk. Several field mice were basking in front of the dying
embers of the fire, and two were sitting on his boots. He grinned at
them and lay back again, but he found himself fully awake and very
uncomfortable. He lay there, contemplating his own folly, and demanding
of himself almost fiercely what he had expected to get out of all this
effort and misery. For ten years or so men had come here. Wilkins had
come, for one, and there had been others. And had found nothing, and had
gone away. And now he was there, the end of the procession, to look for
God knows what.