“Halloo,” he shouted back.  “What did you find?”

“Two more trails,” came the answer.  “Come up and look.  One goes down the canyon on this side.”  A wild scramble up through the trees followed.  Soon they were all traveling down one of the newly-discovered trails.  The other one began at an old log cabin, and ran zigzag up the mountain till it was lost in the gravel slopes.

“I’ve been trying to make up my mind where this canyon leads to,” said Mr. Allen.  “I’m wondering if it can be Buffalo Park.”

A bridge was visible down the stream, and there was the sound of water splashing.  An immense boulder that had rolled from the cliff above obstructed any further view.  Ham and Willis were in the lead, the rest following as rapidly as possible.  The two ahead disappeared, then came into view beyond the big boulder.

“A house!”

“A cabin!” Every one broke into a run.  Just above the bridge a crude dam of logs had been built to back up a supply of water, and it was running over from the little pond behind in a happy, babbling waterfall.  Then it turned to the south around the base of a patch of high ground.  On this bit of high country, overlooking the stream on one side and the upper canyon on the other, stood the loudly-announced cabin.

It was a typical mountain log-house, except for its roof, which was covered with cedar shingles instead of the customary split poles, thatched over with marsh hay.  Its every line suggested age.  In some places the mud chinking had dried and dropped out, yet, strange to say, the windows were all there, and even the door, which was of city manufacture, was not past repair.  One corner of the roof had been slightly damaged by the falling of a monstrous pine log that was still lying where it had fallen several years before.

The cabin had evidently been used as a summer home only, for there was no fireplace or a chimney of any kind, except a dilapidated old length of stovepipe that stuck through the gable at one end.  It was this feature that made it look so completely forlorn and abandoned.  Besides the door and two windows that opened on the trail side, there was a window on the up end and a door on the stream side which led out onto a crude back porch, built entirely of aspen poles.  The floor was of pine boards, and had once been a marvel of beauty and convenience for a mountain cabin; but time had played strange pranks with it, till now it was uneven and sloped off in a jerky fashion toward the back door.  On one wall was fastened a rude set of shelves, on which was perched a motley collection of pickle bottles and tin cans.  Stretched along one wall stood a crude, home-made table, and in one corner stood the remains of a little, old-fashioned stove.  A wooden chest stood under the shelves, and had probably been used for a grub box.  It still contained a few pounds of yellow cornmeal, half a can of baking powder, a badly molded loaf of rye bread, and a surprisingly sturdy sample