Chilcoot was on the lead at the bend and he came to a standstill, and flung out an arm pointing.
“Get a look, Bill,” he cried, in the rough tone that for him was something indicative of the unusual. “It’s a shanty, or I’m a ‘dead-beat.’”
The ravine had narrowed abruptly, but beyond the bend it instantly widened. Chilcoot was standing gazing beyond, where the dark, rocky walls had risen to a great height and overhung, shadowing the canyon ominously. He was pointing across the almost dried out stream at a tiny human habitation crushed in against the base of the opposite wall.
Wilder instantly abandoned his pre-occupation with a curious facet of black rock that was not unlike pumice in its queer formation. He had been examining a vein of crystal quartz running through it. He hurried up to his companion and gazed at the strange vision of a log-built shack that seemed a complete anachronism in this wilderness of Nature.
Wilder gazed about him. The interior of the dilapidated hut was no less interesting than its exterior. It was old and decayed, hanging together simply by reason of the support of the cliff against which it had been built. For the moment imagination was stirred, and he saw in fancy the picture of a simple missionary carrying on, in his untutored fashion, a work that had no relation to his spiritual calling.
Chilcoot, with the practical interest which the discovery inspired in his lesser imagination, was examining the signs and indications with which the place was littered. There was a rusted, riffled pan. There were several shovels in a more or less state of decay. There was an old packing case filled with odds and ends for a camper’s needs. There were the remains of a fire set between two blackened stones, a battered camp kettle and a pannikin or two. Just within the doorway stood a bent crowbar and a haftless pick. Another pick was leaning up against the box of oddments.
It was easy enough to interpret the story of this decayed and deserted shelter. And the men who had discovered it were prompt in their reading of its story. It was a gold prospector’s shelter littered with the crudest implements of his craft. And from the decaying walls and rafters, and the rust-eaten condition of every metal utensil, they read a story of long years of disuse and the stress of the northern seasons.