Turkey Trot did listen, and to his ears came the sound of music.
“It—it’s a banjo or somethin’,” he muttered. “And—and singin’.”
He turned a startled gaze toward the deserted cabin. The sound appeared to come from there. His feet moved restlessly. He appeared about to flee.
“’Tain’t them,” he said in a near whisper. He spoke of Florence and Tillie. “They didn’t have no banjo. And besides, they wouldn’t.”
“Of course not.” Petite Jeanne had him by the arm. “All the same, we must see. They may know something. Many things.”
They moved a few steps down the trail they had chosen. At once they were able to see more clearly. Behind the cabin, and within its shadows, was a half burned-out camp fire. And about the fire people sat.
“Who can these be?” Jeanne asked.
Turkey Trot did not reply. Instead, he took her by the hand and led her farther down the trail.
In time this trail, after circling the narrow hill, came up again, thus bringing them nearer the camp fire.
At last the boy dropped on hands and knees and began to crawl. Following his example, Jeanne lost herself in the thick bed of tall ferns.