A half mile down the trail they came upon a cabin. A mere shack built of logs with a low chimney, with one door and no windows, it could hardly be called a human habitation.
Yet there were people sleeping here, Marion did not doubt.
“Sha—shall we?” she whispered as she stood near the door.
“’T’wouldn’t do narry bit o’ good. No ’count folks,” whispered Patience.
They were about to pass on when the rattle of a chain caused Marion to start and shudder.
“Coon, pet coon,” whispered the mountain girl, pointing to a dark corner where a coon, chained to a low shrub, was standing on his haunches and eyeing them curiously.
“That coon,” whispered Patience slowly, “might be some good to us.”
Marion did not see how it possibly could, but she did not answer.
As they passed on down the trail Patience paused often to study the hoof marks in the soft earth. Once, at the juncture of a small stream with the larger creek, she paused for some time, only to shake her head and murmur:
“No, they have gone on down.”