Novel 1986 - Last Of The Breed (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour

looked, looked away, and then looked back. It was still there, but there was no sign of smoke. He went closer through the trees. It was a good-sized structure, almost square, built of logs. No smoke came from the chimney. He went down through the trees to the path that led to it. He saw no tracks or any sign of travel in a long time. With the coming onset of winter, it was doubtful if there would be anyone traveling this way. Avoiding the path, he kept under cover of the trees.
    Bit by bit he worked his way around the structure. There were four windows and a back door. That door showed no signs of recent use.
    He waited for a while, watching the house. There was a trough behind it into which water ran, water from a spring. He could see and hear the water falling from the pipe into the trough. As he watched, a deer came down from the trees opposite and drank at the trough. Waiting for the right shot, he killed the deer with an arrow and went forward to skin it. He was expert, and it took him but little time to skin out the deer and save the best cuts of meat, yet ever and anon he straightened up to listen and to look all about him.
    Aside from the structure beside him the place reminded him of a corner of the Seven Devils country in Idaho. His father had sometimes hunted there with old Cougar Dave, crossing the mountains to get together.
    He went up to the back door and tried it, but it was locked. He walked around the building and tried the front door, and it opened easily under his hand. He stood in the doorway, making a careful survey of the inside.
    Along one side was a row of bunks, enough for a dozen men. There was a stove and a much older fireplace. A few utensils lay about, and old clothes hung on nails along the wall. There was much dust and no evidence the place had been occupied for years.
    The clothing was ragged and old, most of it filthy. He guessed convicts had been working here, probably at a mine, for he had discovered a few tools and a miner’s lamp. There was nothing else of use. He backed out and closed the door behind him. Surrounded by mountains as it was, he took a chance and built fires to smoke his meat and dry it. For three days he remained where he was, cleaning the deer hide and resting. On the fourth day he buried what remained of the carcass, hid the sticks on which he had dried his meat, and wiped out what tracks he had left, sifting leaves and dust over the area. Only then did he strike out upstream.
    Following the stream he came to its source and found himself facing a low saddle in the mountains. He slept there, and on the following morning started across the pass over the saddle.
    The morning was cold, and there was ice along the shores of the stream he followed. Plodding on steadily, he saw no game. He had walked several miles when he became aware of a faint drone. Pausing to listen, he heard it again, the faint but unmistakable sound of a helicopter!
    Hastily, he glanced around. Some low-growing spruce mingled with larch grew along the stream; running, he took a dive under the nearest spruce, pulling himself in tight beside its trunk. The spruce branches swept the ground, making perfect cover.
    Had he been seen? He had not seen the helicopter, not taking time to look around for it. But had they seen
him
?
    It was overhead now, circling. Then it rose, flying higher, took a half turn around the basin, and then went off downstream. Watching through parted branches he saw the copter dip down; it seemed to be landing near the structure.
    Suppose they came upstream, looking? It was all of five miles of uphill walking, but they could hop it and land close beside him. He had to get away, but once out from under the spruce he would be in plain sight if they flew this way again, and cover was scarce.
    To go or not to go? He waited, listening, thinking.
    Peering through the spruce branches, he studied the terrain before him. Some two hundred yards away was a cluster of granite slabs, apparently pieces