“He’s escaped me again,” exclaimed Ralph angrily. “Confound him, he’s worse than a mystery now. I’ll bet that it was he who stampeded the ponies last night and now he turns out to be a miserable horse thief. Wonder if I can’t get a clew to him at that hut yonder? At any rate there’s Baldy tied up and safe and sound as ever. I suppose I ought to thank our mysterious friend for leaving him behind.”
The boy slipped from behind his tree trunk and made his way toward the hut. Baldy whinnied as the boy approached. It was plain that the pony was glad to see him.
“Good Baldy! Good old pony,” exclaimed Ralph, slapping the animal’s thigh and then giving him some bread. “I wish you could talk, old fellow, and then maybe you could throw some light on what in creation all this means anyhow.”
Ralph then looked all about him with much curiosity. The hut was moss-grown and moldering into decay. Judged from its exterior it had not been lived in for many years. At the rear of it a spring bubbled into a rusty iron pot beside which lay a rust-eaten dipper.
The door of the shack—windows it had none—hung on one crazy hinge made of raw-hide.
“Guess I’ll take a look inside,” said Ralph, feeling a very lively curiosity, “but from general appearances I don’t think our mysterious friend and horse thief actually lives here. Looks to me more as if he used it as a temporary camping place. Yet he could hardly have found his way here unless he previously knew of its existence.”
Cautiously, and with his rifle ready for a surprise, for he did not know what he might encounter next, Ralph entered the hut. It smelled moldy and stuffy, and in the dim light he could not at first see very much of its interior.
Bit by bit the details began to grow out of the gloom. In the center of the shack was a rough board table and on it stood some rusted plates and cups. In a corner hung some old garments and a few moldering furs, skins of raccoons and minks. A rusty stove stood in another corner, one leg missing and sagging drunkenly.
By the door Ralph now noticed a yellow bit of paper tacked up, with some writing on it. He came closer to read it and made out in faded characters:
“Gone on April 16, 1888, Jess Boody, Trapper.”