The Mystery off Glen Road

into a walk and led the way along the path that led to the other, smaller clearing.
    In a few minutes she stopped and yelled over her shoulder, “Oh, look, Honey. There’s all the proof we need.”
    Starlight edged past Susie into the clearing. “I don’t see anything,” Honey said, vaguely peering around into the brush.
    “Look up, not down,” Trixie cried impatiently* pointing. “See that dead rabbit hanging from that sapling? He was caught in a snare. Mart drew a diagram of a rabbit snare for me. A partridge snare, too. If the poacher wanted to catch partridges by the dozen, all he’d have to do is set up snares around the feeding stations. And I’ll bet he has!”

The Cabin in the Clearing • 16

    How HORRIBLE!” Honey gasped. “Daddy will have a fit if anyone has been catching his valuable birds. Do you suppose the poacher has been setting snares for pheasants, too?”
    “No,” Trixie said. “They can be shot at quite easily because of their bright-colored feathers. But partridges sort of blend into the underbrush, so you can practically step on one before you see it. Then they zoom up suddenly with a whir-r of their wings and disappear before the hunter has time to aim.”
    “Jim has shot lots of partridges,” Honey said. “But then, of course, Jim is awfully smart. And I remember he said that you shouldn’t really shoot them unless you have a gun dog, because they’re so hard to find. That’s why he bought a springer spaniel and has spent so much time teaching Patch to retrieve. Jim says unless you hunt with a good retriever, there is apt to be a lot of useless killing of birds, and, worse, a cripple can get away and later die a slow death of misery.”
    Trixie nodded. “That’s one thing about snares. The bird dies quickly and almost painlessly, once he tries to force his way through the noose. He’s held a prisoner, too, so his body can’t get lost. But anybody who sets a snare usually keeps a close watch on it, because a fox or a catamount can get the bird even before the trapper gets there.”
    Honey shuddered and said in a scared whisper, “That poacher might be in the thicket right now, listening to every word we say. Let’s go, Trixie. He probably has a gun.”
    And then, as though in proof of her statement, two shots rang out in rapid succession. The blasts were so close by that Susie shied violently. While they had been talking, both girls had let the reins go slack, and almost before they knew it, both horses had bolted and were tearing along the narrow path.
    Susie was in the lead, and by the time Trixie did gather up the reins, the horse was out of control. Tree branches slapped Trixie in the face and brought blinding tears of pain to her eyes. She pulled as hard as she could on the curb, yelling, “Whoa! Whoa!” to no avail. Susie flew along as though pursued by a thousand devils. The “devil” in this case was only Starlight, but Trixie guessed that he, too, was panic-stricken. He was following Susie so closely that Trixie knew if the mare suddenly stopped, there would be a terrific collision, and Honey might be badly hurt. Susie showed no signs of even slowing, but she might stumble on a rock, and then both girls would probably be thrown! To make matters worse, the path wound dizzily through the woods so that, instead of galloping in a straight line, Susie kept swerving abruptly, sometimes to the right, sometimes to the left, so that it was hard for Trixie to keep her seat in the saddle. If only Honey, who was so much more experienced a horsewoman, were in the lead!
    But, finally; from sheer exhaustion Trixie guessed, Susie gradually slowed from a dead run to a canter and at last to a trot. As the path widened, Starlight came up so that the girls were now riding abreast.
    “They’re under control now,” Honey gasped, her face very white, “but where are we?” ,
    “I haven’t the foggiest notion,” Trixie got out, panting. “Let’s stop and see if Bobby’s compass will be of any help.”
    And then they came around a bend and found themselves in a large clearing, and, to their amazement, right smack in the middle of it was a rustic cabin. The horses stopped of their own free will, as though they, too, were surprised.
    Not far from the cabin was a pit in which were dying embers of a wood fire. Above it hung a black pot, and a mingling of delicious odors from it permeated the air in the clearing.
    In an awed silence, the girls dismounted and stared at each