They started out at a brisk trot. There was a wide valley to skirt where another stream came into the Middle Fork. It took a detour of nearly three miles to bring them back opposite the mouth of the canyon on the other side of the stream. The horses splashed through a ford, followed relatively level going for three-quarters of a mile, and then started an abrupt climb. Marion regarded the sweating horses during one of the brief rest periods which enabled the animals to catch a few quick breaths.

  “Aren’t you pushing the horses a bit fast?” she asked.

  Hank tilted back his sombrero. “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t anxious to have those other two along. I don’t want to disappoint them, in case I don’t find what I’m looking for.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “The cabin shown in that photograph.”

  “You think you know where it is?”

  “Well, now,” Hank said, shifting sideways in the saddle and cocking his right knee over the horn of the saddle, “I can best answer that by saying that I know the places where it ain’t.”

  She laughed.

  “You see,” Hank went on, seriously enough, “that cabin is up on a ridge somewhere. I know just about when it must have been built. That is, I know it was built after the last real heavy winter—on account of the down timber. I know the general nature of the country it’s in. And, well, I’ve been doing a little listening around.

  “A year ago a chap who could be this man they’re looking for showed up here and had a partner with him. They went up in this country somewhere and sort of disappeared. Everyone thinks they went out the other way through the White Cliff country. Had one packhorse between them. I talked with the chap who sold ’em the horse. One of the fellows was a pretty good outdoors man; the other was a rank tenderfoot. Now, maybe there’s a cabin up in here somewhere that was built and then abandoned.”

  “Do you know where it is?”

  Hank shook his head.

  Marion surveyed the tumbled waste of wild, rugged country “How in the world do you ever expect to find it in this wilderness if you don’t know where it is?”

  “Same way the people who lived in it found it,” Hank said. “Take along in the winter when trails were pretty well snowed over, they had to have something to guide them when they wanted to go home.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Hank motioned toward the trees along the trail. “See those little marks?”

  “Oh, you mean the blazes?”

  “That’s right. Now, you see, along this trail you’ve got a long blaze and underneath it two short ones. They’re pretty well grown over and a person that didn’t know what he was looking for wouldn’t find them. They show up plain enough to a woodsman.”

  “And you think these men blazed a trail in to their cabin?”

  “Must have.”

  “How much farther?”

  Hank grinned. “I’m darned if I know. I’m just looking for blazes.”

  He swung around in the saddle and dropped his right foot back in the stirrup. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  From little natural meadows which existed here and there along the trail, Marion could see out over an awe-inspiring expanse of country—mile on mile of tumbled mountain peaks, deep, shadow-filled canyons, high, jagged, snow-covered crests.

  Hank Lucas looked back at her and grinned. “Lots of it, ain’t there?”

  “I’ll say there is.”

  Abruptly he reined in his horse.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s an elk,” he said.

  “Where? I don’t see him.”

  “Over there. Wait a minute, he’s going to bugle to the horses.”

  From the shadows came a clear, flutelike whistle which started on a low note, ran to a higher note, then dropped through two lower notes into final silence.

  “Oh, how beautiful!” Marion exclaimed.

  “First time you ever heard an elk bugle?”

  Her eyes were glistening. She nodded her head.

  “He doesn’t like the horses,” Lucas said. “Thinks they’re a couple of bull elks which may be rivals. This country is pretty wild. He don’t know much about men. There he is over there in the shadows under that tree.”

  She caught sight of him then, a huge, antlered animal standing in the shadows. Abruptly he pawed the ground, lowered his head, gave a series of short, sharp, barking challenges.

  “He looks as though he’s getting ready to attack,” Marion said, alarmed.

  “He is.” Hank grinned. “But he’ll get our scent before he does any damage, find out we ain’t other elks, and beat it.” He turned to her sharply. “I don’t notice you trying to photograph him. I haven’t seen you photograph anything so far. If you didn’t come in here to take pictures, why did you come in here?”

  She said, “If I told you, would you keep it to yourself?”

  “I might.”

  The elk took two quick steps forward, then suddenly caught their wind, sniffed, whirled abruptly, and was gone, like some great, flitting cloud shadow, his big hulk dissolving in the trees.

  Marion’s speech was quick and nervous. “I came in here to find my brother. I think he’s the one who was with Frank Adrian. That’s why I was willing to go along with these other two.”

  Hank spun his horse so he was facing her. “Okay,” he said quietly, “suppose you tell me about him.”

  “I don’t know too much about it,” she said. “The last letter I had from Harry was last summer. He was at Twin Falls then. There was an ad in the paper stating that a man who was going into the hills for his health wanted a partner who was fully familiar with camping, trapping, and mining. This man was willing to give a guarantee, in addition to a half interest in any mines or pelts. It sounded good. Harry wrote me he’d answered the ad and got the job, that he liked his partner a lot, and they were going to head into the Middle Fork country. That’s the last I heard from him.”

  “He write you very often?”

  “Only once every two or three months,” she said. “But he’s close to me. He’s my older brother.”

  “He give you any address?” Hank asked.

  “Yes, the county seat back there.”

  “You write to him there?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “The letters came back. I don’t think Harry would have gone away and—well, he wouldn’t have gone this long without writing unless something had happened. I’ve been wondering whether that ad was on the up and up.”

  “I see,” Hank said. “Your brother’s name Harry Chandler?”

  “Harry Benton,” she said. “My name is Marion Chandler Benton. I didn’t want to use the last name until I knew more about things. I thought perhaps if Harry had got in any trouble I might be able to help him. He’s impulsive and a little wild.”

  Hank regarded her shrewdly. “Ever been in trouble before?”

  “Yes. You see, he’s—well, he’s impulsive.”

  “And what’s the reason you didn’t tell Corliss Adrian about this?”

  “Because if he’s got into trouble,” Marion said, “I can do more for him if people don’t know who I am. I don’t want her to know. I’m telling you because you know that I’m in here for something other than photographs, and I want you to know what it is so—well, so you’ll know.”

  “So I’ll quit trying to find out?” Hank asked with a grin.

  “Something like that.”

  “This brother of yours is sort of the black sheep of the family?”

  “Yes.”

  “But he’s your favorite, just the same?”

  “Yes.”

  “Want to tell me about the other time he was in trouble?”

  “No.”

  Hank gently touched the tip of his spur to his horse. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  They rode on for another half mile, passing now through big-game country. Twice they saw deer standing watching them. Once they heard crashes in the forest as a big bull elk stampeded his cows out of their way, then turned, himself, to bugle a challenge.

  “Usually the deer don’t hang around so much in the elk country,” Hank said, “but there seem to be a lot of them in here. I— What’s this?” He stopped abruptly.

  “I don’t see anything.”

  Hank pointed to a tree.

  “Oh, yes, I see it now. It’s a blaze, a different blaze from this trail blaze. Looks as though the person who made it didn’t want it to be too prominent.”

  Hank indicated other trees bearing all but imperceptible scars. “Want to take a look?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  Hank turned his horse down the ridge, following the faint trail.

  “Shouldn’t you leave a note or something, in case the pack string catches up with us?”

  “They’ll see our tracks,” Hank said.

  They skirted wide patches of down timber, lost the trail twice on such detours, but eventually picked it up again. Then, without warning, they came to a little clearing and a cabin.

  Hank swung down off his horse and dropped the reins to the ground.

  Marion looked at the cabin for a moment, then flung herself out of the saddle. “It’s the same cabin that’s in the picture,” she said. “The picture was taken from over there.”

  “Let’s take a look around.”

  They crossed the little opening and Hank pushed the cabin door open.

  Marion stood at his side, looking over the one-room structure.

  There was a wood stove of rough iron, two bunks, a table, a rude bench, a row of boxes which had been nailed to the wall so as to form a cupboard and in which were a few dishes, knives, and forks. A frying pan hung from a nail, and there was a large stewpan face down on the stove. The cabin had a dirt floor, but it was cleaner than any abandoned cabin Marion had ever seen. Yet it held that characteristic musty smell which indicated it had been some time since there had been a fire in the stove or since men had slept on the two bunks.

  On the table was a kerosene lamp partially filled with kerosene.

  “Well,” Hank said, “I guess this is it. You say your brother’s an old-time camper?”

  “That’s right. He’s done quite a good deal of trapping and prospecting. He didn’t like too much civilization.”

  Hank nodded. He took off his hat and scratched the hair around his temples.

  “What is it?” she asked. “Anything?”

  “No,” Hank said, “I guess it’s okay. Let’s get back to the trail. We’ll want to camp right around here somewhere.”

  “We could camp in the flat here and use the cabin, couldn’t we?”

  “Better not,” Hank said shortly. “Let’s go back to the trail and— Hello, what’s this?”

  Hank was looking at the three boxes which had been nailed to the side of the cabin.

  “What is it? I don’t see anything.”

  Hank said, “That piece of paper. Looks like the edge of an envelope.”

  “Oh, yes, I see it now.”

  Hank moved over. His thumb and forefinger gripped the corner of an envelope which had been pushed into a small space between the boxes and the log wall of the cabin.

  Marion laughed nervously. “It must be a letter he put there and forgot to mail.”

  Hank turned the envelope over and said, “It’s addressed ‘To Whoever Finds This Letter.’ The envelope isn’t sealed. Let’s just take a look.”

  Hank pulled the flap of the envelope and took out the single sheet of paper, which was covered on both sides with fine pen-and-ink writing. He spread it out on the table.

  Marion, standing at his shoulder, read the letter with him:

  My name is Frank Adrian, although until the last few days there was a great deal I couldn’t remember about myself. I am married to Corliss Lathan Adrian, and I will put her address at the bottom of this letter, so the finder may notify her in the event it becomes necessary.

  I have been subject to fits of amnesia. Some time ago I had an attack which sent me wandering away from home. For a while I didn’t know who I was, then I could remember only a part of my life. There was a hiatus following an automobile accident in which I received a blow on the head. However, recently my mind has cleared, and I know now who I am.

  For some time I have been engaged in a partnership with a peculiar chap named Harry Benton, a man who is an experienced woodsman, packer, and prospector. We came up here to this cabin to do some prospecting until the weather got cold and then do some trapping.

  I have heard something about cabin fever, that peculiar malady which grips two persons who are forced into constant association with each other, until finally they become so thoroughly annoyed and irritated that there is a species of insanity generated.

  I had never thought that could happen to me.

  I am all right, but my partner, Harry Benton, has developed a bad case of cabin fever. He hates me with an insane, bitter hatred. I think the man is crazy.

  A few days ago we had a quarrel over a matter so trivial it seemed absurd to me, but I can see that Benton has become absolutely furious and is brooding over it. I am going to try to leave here, but I am still pretty much of a tenderfoot and it will be a hard trip for me. I feel certain that if Benton finds I have run out on him he will track me down and kill me. Therefore I want to get enough of a head start so he can’t catch up with me.

  If the worst should come to the worst and anything should happen, will the finder of this letter please notify my wife.

  The letter was signed “Frank Adrian,” and below that was the address of his wife.

  Hank looked up at Marion Benton.

  “Why, how absolutely absurd!” she exclaimed. “The man must be insane. Harry never was a bit like that.”

  “Cabin fever is a peculiar thing,” Hank said. “I’ve seen people that were just as nice as could be. They’d be swell campmates until they got cabin fever and—well, it’s a kind of insanity. You can’t—”

  “Oh, bosh and nonsense! Harry has camped with people all over the country. He’s been out in the hills as much as you have. It’s absolutely absurd to think of Harry flying off the handle that way.”

  “Of course, a tenderfoot is something of a trial to live with,” Hank pointed out. “There are times when just wrangling them gets you to the point where—”

  “But, Hank, that’s absolutely foolish. I don’t know why this man wrote that letter, but it’s absurd.”

  “Well,” Hank said, “let’s go on back and stop the packtrain. We’ll camp around here somewhere and take a look at the cabin. Everything seems to be all nice and shipshape.”

  Marion nodded, too stunned and angry to engage in much conversation.

  Hank looked carefully around the place for a while, then said, “Oh—oh, what’s this?”

  “What?”

  Hank turned to one of the walls. Down near the floor were reddish-brown stains which had evidently spattered against the wood in pear-shaped drops, then had dried.

  Marion looked at the stains, then raised her eyes to Hank. “Hank, is it—?”

  Hank nodded and said, “I guess we’d better close up the place and go get the others….”

  It was well along in the afternoon when Marion Chandler Benton, Corliss Adrian, James Dewitt, and Hank Lucas returned to the cabin. In the meantime they had found a camping place and left Kenney and the cook to unpack the horses and make camp. Lucas had briefly described what they had found and had shown the others the letter. Marion had announced to one and all that she was Harry Benton’s sister and had ridiculed the letter.

  James Dewitt had accepted the announcement of her relationship to Frank Adrian’s partner without surprise. He had, however, promptly taken sides with Mrs. Adrian.

  “You don’t suppose Frank Adrian wrote that letter just for fun, do you?” he said.

  “He was a tenderfoot,” Marion said. “He wasn’t accustomed to living out in the hills with anyone. Harry was probably a little taciturn, and Frank took it for cabin fever.”

  “Well, if nothing happened to him, and it was all a mistake,” Dewitt said, “why hasn’t his wife heard from him?”

  “Because he has amnesia. He’s had another lapse of memory.”

  “Could be,” Dewitt said in a tone that failed to show any conviction. “Since we’re taking off the masks, I may as well tell you I’m a sergeant detective in charge of the missing persons department of— Well, here, take a look at my credentials, all of you.”

  “Please let’s get started,” Corliss Adrian said. “I don’t want to make any trouble for anyone. All I want is to find Frank. Please let’s go.”

  Now, as they arrived at the cabin, Dewitt, inspecting the reddish-brown stains on the wall, promptly took charge. “Those stains are blood,” he said. “Now, let’s be careful not to disturb anything in the cabin. Hank, show me exactly where it was you found the letter.”

  Hank Lucas replaced the letter behind the boxes. “Right here,” he said. “It was sticking out just about like this.”

  “As much as that?”

  “That’s right. Just about like this.”

  “I see. Let’s take a look at this stove.”

  Hank said, “Doesn’t seem to be any firewood or kindling here, but I can go out and get some dry wood and in just a few minutes have this whole cabin heated up.”

  “Definitely not,” Dewitt said. “We’ll leave everything exactly as it is, except that we’ll look through these ashes down below the grate here.”

  Dewitt found a piece of flat tin from which he made a scoop and began shoveling the ashes. After the second shovelful, he gave an exclamation.

  There were four or five badly charred buttons in the ashes.

  “I guess you folks better get out,” Dewitt said to Corliss and Marion. “It’s beginning to look bad. You girls wait outside. We don’t want any evidence obliterated. You’d better wait over there by the door, Hank. This is a case where too many cooks spoil the broth. I know exactly what to do and how to do it. Remember, this is right down my alley.”

  Corliss and Marion went outside. Corliss was crying, Marion indignant. Hank strolled off down the trail, which he said probably led to a spring.