Odds and ends of paraphernalia in this primitive lean-to, pathetic little trinkets, showed it to have been the room which little June Sanderson had occupied. Tom wondered where this child of the forest was now, and if she was happy in the big, glaring, noisy world. And if she ever wished for her warm bearskin comforter.
In the larger apartment (though it was small enough) were rusty old traps hanging against the logs, a couple of vicious-looking knives stuck in a crevice (Tom thought these had been used for skinning animals), and several dilapidated pairs of snowshoes.
One thing affected Tom strangely: this was a bleached skull of some small animal, on which stood, in its own grease, a half-burned candle. The other half of that candle had lighted the last minutes, perhaps, that old Buck Sanderson had spent in his lonely cabin. And the skull. How old was it? And when did the shot ring out in those solemn depths of wilderness which had laid that creature low? For how many years had it been a candlestick?
He pictured a candle burning there upon that ghastly little pedestal while Mink and Buck skinned a bear, or perhaps divided their gains acquired from Pollock, the questionable Pollock, who took care of furs so long ago. There were rows of chalk marks on a log, too; the primitive bookkeeping of old days.
“Come on, let’s eat,” said Tom.
CHAPTER XXIII—Footsteps
“Here’s some salt, if you want any,” said Brent.
“We have plenty,” Tom answered. “Where did you get that, anyway?”
“It was under that old chest.”
“Let’s see it.”