The first thing I saw after forcing open the crude, wooden door of the abandoned-looking cabin was a peculiar bed. The frame was constructed from rough two-by-four lumber. No rope lacing or metal springs supported the mattress. There was no mattress.

Old carpet—cut to fit—wrapped around one two-by-four, was drawn taut across the top and then wrapped around the other two-by-four. Tacks fastened the carpet in place. At the head and foot, the carpet again overlapped the frame, and tacks held it securely.

Although the bed looked crude and unwelcoming, I anticipated more comfort than sleeping in a bedroll on the hard-packed earthen floor.

Stepping farther into the room, I saw the bedframe represented a large portion of the furnishings in the stark, one-room adobe cabin. An old, scared wooden table with two rough benches, and one rickety armchair at the head of the table completed the décor, if you could call these furnishings by such a fancy word.

A large fieldstone fireplace dominated the north wall of the cabin and protruded into the room. A hook allowed a kettle to swing out or back over the fire, providing a small cooking area for the inhabitant. Although no wooden mantle graced the top of the fireplace, two large kerosene lanterns proudly crowned the flat, topmost stones above the hearth.

The room felt warmer than I expected, considering the bitter wind blowing outside. Shrugging out of my backpack, I set it and my bedroll on the floor, then walked over to the hearth. With a stick, blackened at one end, I poked the ashes. Surprisingly, I found the faint glow of coals.

An uneasy sensation drew up the small hairs on the back of my neck. Turning, I saw a large, bearded man standing in the doorway. I felt sure I had closed the door behind me. In fact, I knew I had because of the bitter, cold wind. How had this man managed to open the door without a sound? And, what did he want?

Instinctively, my hand went to my hip before I remembered I’d lost my Bowie knife earlier that day when I fell and rolled down a slope. I had no defense but for bravado. Lifting my chin, I stood as tall as my five feet, ten inches allowed.

The man kicked the door closed. That’s when I noticed the gutted jackrabbit dangling from his left hand. “You might throw some wood on the fire while I skin dinner,” he said in a rough, gruff voice.

After flipping the jackrabbit onto the table, he slipped out of his heavy coat, and turning, hung it on a peg by the door. “I don’t mean to ask twice,” he commented as he sat in the rickety armchair and pulled a skinning knife from somewhere beneath the table. I didn’t know who this man was, or why he lived out here in the middle of nowhere, but I felt it advisable to acquiesce to his request—at least for now.