“Quite a few,” the sheriff admitted noncommittally.
Sergeant Holcomb said abruptly, “Well, Sheriff, let’s get going. Mason can follow us.”
The road crossed a ridge, debouched onto a plateau. Here and there were little clearings, cabins nestled back against the trees. Up near the upper end of the plateau, when they were within a few hundred feet of the stream which came roaring down from a mountain canyon, Sheriff Barnes abruptly signaled for a right-hand turn. He swung into a dirt road, carpeted with pine needles, which ran back to a cabin so skillfully blended with the trees that it seemed almost to be the work of nature rather than of man.
Mason exclaimed, “Look at that cabin, Della! It certainly is a beautiful setting!”
A bluejay, resenting their intrusion, launched himself downward from the top of one of the pine trees, screeching his raucous, “ Thief... thief... thief.”
Mason swung the car into the shaded area back of the cabin and parked it. Sheriff Barnes crossed over and said, “I’m going to ask you to be careful not to touch anything, Mr. Mason, and I think Miss Street had better wait outside.”
Mason nodded acquiescence.
A tall, rangy man who moved with the easy grace of a mountain dweller emerged from the shadows and touched his somewhat battered hat to the sheriff. “Everything’s okay, Sheriff,” he said.
Sheriff Barnes took a key from his pocket, unlocked the padlock on the door, and said by way of introduction, “This is Fred Waner. He lives up here. I’ve had him guarding the cabin.”
The sheriff opened the door. “Now, let’s try not to walk around any more than is necessary. You, Sergeant, know what to do.” Mason glanced into the mountain cabin with its big fireplace, plain pine table, hand-hewn rafters. A neatly made bed with snowy linen was in startling contrast to the seed-littered floor. Mud-stained rubber boots stood, sagging limply; above them was a jointed fly rod.