Some one had begun operations
there and abandoned the work before enough timber had been cut to half
repay the labor of building that long chute.
Nor was that all. In the edge of the workings the branches and litter
of harvesting those hoary old cedars had been neatly cleared from a
small level space. And on this space, bold against the white carpet of
snow, stood a small log house.
Hollister pushed open the latched door and stepped into the musty
desolation of long abandoned rooms. It was neatly made, floored with
split cedar, covered by a tight roof of cedar shakes. Its tiny-paned
windows were still intact. Within, it was divided into two rooms.
There was no stove and there had never been a stove. A rough fireplace
of stone served for cooking. An iron bar crossed the fireplace and on
this bar still hung the fire-blackened pothooks. On nails and shelves
against the wall pans still hung and dishes stood thick with dust. On
a homemade bunk in one corner lay a mattress which the rats had
converted to their own uses, just as they had played havoc with papers
scattered about the floor and the oilcloth on the table.
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