Surely here, or hereabout, had been enacted a drama of murderous nature, and inside this cavern might repose its blood-stained sequel.
But the filtering beams of light encouraged Old Cy, and he entered. No ghastly corpse confronted him, but instead a human, if cramped, abode. A fireplace deftly fashioned of slate occupied one side of this cave; in front a low table of the same flat stone, resting upon small ones; and upon the table were rusty tin dishes, a few mouldy hardtack, a knife, fork, and scraps of meat, exhaling the odor of decay. A smell of smoke from the charred wood in the fireplace mingled with it all. In one corner was a bed of brown fir twigs, also mouldy, a blanket, and tanned deerskins.
The cave was of oval, irregular shape, barely high enough for Old Cy to stand upright. Across its roof, on either side of the rude chimney, a narrow crack admitted light, and as he looked about, he saw in the dim light another doorlike opening into still another cave. Into this he peered, but could see nothing.
“A queer livin’ spot,” he muttered at last, “a reg’lar human panther den. An’ ’twas out o’ this I seen the smoke come. An’ here’s his gun,” he added, as, more accustomed to the dim light, he saw one in a corner. “Two guns, two canoes, an’ nobody to hum,” he continued. “I’m safe, anyhow. But I’ve got to peek into that other cave, sartin sure,” and he withdrew to the open air.
A visit to a couple of birches soon provided means of light, and he again entered the cave. One moment more, and then a flaring torch of bark was thrust into the inner cave, a mere crevasse not four feet wide, and stooping, as he now had to, Old Cy entered and knelt while he looked about.
He saw nothing here of interest except the serried rows of jutting slate, across two of which lay a slab of the same–no vestige of aught human, and Old Cy was about to retreat when his flare burning close to his finger tips unnoticed, caused him to drop it on the instant, and drawing another from his pocket he lit it while the flame lasted in the first one.
It is said that great discoveries are almost invariably made by some trifling accident–a gold mine found by stumbling over a stone, a valley prolific of diamonds disclosed by digging for water.
In this case it was true, for as Old Cy bent to light his second torch ere he withdrew from the inner cave, a flash of reflected light came from beneath this slab–only for one second, but enough to attract his attention.
He stooped again and lifted the slab. Six large tin cans had been hidden by it. He grasped one and could scarce lift it. Again his fingers closed over it. He crawled backward to the better-lighted cave and drew the cover off the can with eager motion, and poured a heap of shining, glittering coin out upon that food-littered table.
Into that dark hole he dived again, as a starved dog leaps for food, seized the cans, two at a time, almost tumbled back, and emptied them. Four had been filled with gold coin and two stuffed with paper money.