“No—no, not by ghosts!” he held up a hand. “By people who once lived here. It’s a notion of mine, this business of houses being haunted by living folks.
“But then,” his voice dropped. “Mebby they’re dead. Some sort of foreigners they was, the ones that lived in this cabin. Came here durin’ the war. Lot of queer ones in the valley them days. Deserters, some of ’em. Some dodgin’ the draft. Some foreign spies.
“Big man, that one,” he nodded toward the cabin. “Big woman. Hard workers. Not much to say for themselves.
“One day they’d gone. Where? Why? No one knows. Spies, maybe. Government boat at Anchorage just at that time. Shot ’em, like as not, for spies.”
Florence shuddered.
“Maybe not,” the man went on. “Might come back—Chicaski was the name. Russians.”
“If—if they come back, can they claim the cabin?” Florence was thrown into sudden consternation.
“No-o. I guess not. Didn’t have no legal claim on it like as not. There’s other deserted cabins in the valley, lots of ’em. Folks got discouraged and quit. Raise plenty of things to eat. Can’t sell a thing. No market. Trap fox and mink, that’s all you can sell. Folks want things that don’t grow on land.
“Got to git along,” he exclaimed, clucking to his horse. “Live back there five miles, I do. I’ll be seein’ you.
“Git up! Go ’long there!” The strange little man gave his shaggy horse a light tap with the rein and the odd outfit went rattling away.