the trail, and of another trail that led into the timber to the southward. "It's like a fort," he muttered, and placed his eye to a slit. Inside were a bunk, a small stove, a rack containing a

dozen rifles, and along the farther side, several stout casks. "The cache!" he breathed, and slipping the heavy iron hasp from its staple, pushed open the door and entered. Crossing swiftly to the rack of rifles, he removed the cartridges from magazines and chambers, replaced