“Hol’ on, Mr. Joe!” Sam ejaculated. “Don’t you reckon mebbe dat’s Blue Bob’s place?”
“Shucks! Those fellows haven’t got a house. They live on the river,” said Joe. “Besides, isn’t their place just what we’re trying to find?”
“We must see what it is, anyway. Come along,” said Bob.
They started down the slope of the ridge again, descended into a swampy valley, crossed a muddy, sluggish creek on a log, made a detour to avoid an absolutely impassable thicket of tall blackberry-canes, and gradually came upon rising ground again. Scrub-oak reappeared; the ground rose, and then appeared to descend, and from the highest point they saw the mysterious building again, and more clearly. It was a small cabin, looking weather-beaten and gray, almost swamped in thickets, and there was no smoke from its chimney nor any sign of life.
“Just an old deserted negro cabin, I expect,” said Joe, but they advanced cautiously all the same, the white boys in front with rifles ready, and Sam lagging a little in the rear with the load of supplies.
The cabin went out of sight again among the trees, but within a hundred yards they came upon a little spring. It had once been walled up with stones, and a tin cup, destroyed with rust, lay in the water. A tiny rivulet flowed away from it, down the slope ahead of them, and after another fifty yards’ cautious advance Joe stopped, peering through the branches.
The cabin was just ahead, nearly surrounded by thickets of blackberry and wild growths of shrubbery. The briefest examination showed that it was untenanted. The doors and windows were gone; vines hung in masses from the eaves, and tangles of weeds grew tall around the small veranda made by a continuation of the roof over the doorway.
“All safe! No river pirates here!” said Joe, laughing, and he threw his rifle over his shoulder and walked toward the shanty.
The others followed him. The ground was so encumbered with thickets of scrub-oak and tall weeds and blackberries that they had to wind in and out as if through a maze to get up to the cabin. A glance inside showed that no one had dwelt there for some time. Drifts of leaves and dirt littered the plank floor; there was not a particle of anything movable in it, and the rude stone fireplace was destitute of ashes.
A glance inside was enough. Joe stepped off the crumbling veranda.