. I
laid my hand upon him gratefully, and found he too was in sore straits,
his coat as ragged as my own, his sides corrugated like a huge
washboard. My spirits rose, my forebodings were forgotten. "Hello," I
called joyfully. "What are you doing here?"

Again he smelled my pockets, wagging his great ears the while, then
waited expectantly.

"Sorry, pal," I apologized.

The little beggar's attitude expressed such dejection I laughed.

"Never mind, old fellow. We'll go find something. There must be
somebody here."

I started out to renew my search and he followed at my heels. So,
together, we wandered down the street on a tour of investigation. His
coat was so black that often I could not distinguish him from the
darker shadows that filled the street. At every door he crowded
forward expectantly, focusing his long ears as though to catch the
first longed-for salutation.

Nearly every door was ajar. The log cabins were small, two or three
rooms at the most, and easily searched. Their owners had apparently
taken only their most portable and necessary possessions, for nearly
every cabin contained something of value, bed springs, bunks, suspended
by wire from the rafters, tables, chairs, dishes, cooking utensils,
even miners' tools. One had a row of books upon its stone mantel.
When we came to the one where sounds had answered my knocking, I paused
before the door, hesitating to intrude. That first creepy feeling
stole over me. I put my hand on the burro's neck. I jerked the
latchstring and pushed open the door. The room was dark and silent.
When I struck a match, there was a rapid scurrying of rats, darting for
shelter.

My burly bodyguard never once left my side. He waited patiently for my
report, when I emerged from each cabin, and accepted with philosophical
resignation my decision to postpone further search till daylight.

Early next morning I was up and out, further to explore the village.
No one had returned home, there was no doubt now that it was deserted.
In one of the cabins I found some salt which I divided with the burro.
Another yielded a little flour. I prepared a sticky mixture of flour
and water, seasoned with salt, and cooked it in one of the fireplaces.
When baked, it had the firmness of granite, but my appetite had a
cutting edge, and the burro, no more particular, accepted the hardtack,
and crunched it greedily.

After breaking our fast, to say nothing of our teeth, we contin