After one glance at it he pushed rapidly on toward the outer wall, determined to see as much as possible by the last light in the lantern. He found still more of those bars, and, beyond them, something made much more recently: a thick, comfortable bed of leaves, on which lay open a coarse, dirty quilt. Beside this, at what seemed to be the head of the primitive couch, and within easy reach of a man resting there, stood a big jug. Somehow it looked familiar. Its nozzle was plugged with a stout corn-cob, and—yes, on one side was an old smear of green paint!
“Thought so,” nodded Douglas.
Memory was depicting a bygone morning among the rocks to the south; a red-haired girl, a gaunt-faced youth, a jug which the girl declared to be the property of Snake Sanders—a jug bearing the same green splotch. Its presence here was conclusive evidence.
All was growing dusky again. The light was going for the last time. It was no longer a flame, but a mere sunken line, turning blue; and from the spent wick rose a warning reek. With a shake that made the foul globe chatter angrily within its wires, he turned and gripped one of the cold metal bars. For its size, it was astoundingly heavy. He had meant to carry it under one arm, but its sullen weight and clammy slipperiness forced him to hug it in both. With bar and gun both cradled across his body and lantern dangling crazily from one finger, he moved for the exit.
It seemed to be nearer than he had thought. The last flickers of the expiring light revealed a black gouge in the wall. Into it he turned, muttering to the lantern: “All right, quit! I don’t need you any more.”
The overworked wick did quit, leaving him in utter blackness. Half a dozen more steps he took, watching for the first vague dayshine from beyond. Then he halted as if petrified. He remembered his handkerchief. And he remembered that he had not seen it on turning in here.
Carefully he lowered his burden. With hands free, he struck a match.
“Wow! You can back-track, Mister Man!” he muttered.
Less than a yard ahead opened a wide rift in the floor. One more step in the dark would have trapped him in a pit where death, swift or slow, would inevitably have obliterated him; death from the fall, from starvation, or from Snake Sanders’ merciless hands.
“Yes, you can back-track,” he repeated. “Wouldn’t Snake have a lovely afternoon with you if he found you in there, all busted up? He’d drop in a few of his squirmy chums to keep you company, most likely, and have the time of his life watching the show. And if he didn’t find you, nobody else ever would. Now use your brains, Hamp, if you have any, and find the right way out.”