Another sign of human presence was also noted, for here a log showing axe-marks, with split wood and chips all about, was seen.
“Some o’ them pelts is ourn,” Old Cy ejaculated, glancing at the array, “an’ I’ve a notion we’d best hook on to ’em. Mebbe not, though,” he added a moment later, “it might git us into more trouble.”
But Ray was getting more and more uneasy each moment since they had landed there. It seemed to him a most dangerous exploit, and while Old Cy had hunted over this curious confusion of slate ledges and stared at the rising film of smoke, Ray had covertly watched the lake’s outlet.
“I don’t think we’d better stay here much longer,” he said at last. “We can’t tell how soon that man may come back and catch us.”
“Guess you’re right,” Old Cy asserted tersely, and after one more look at the inch-wide crack out of which the smoke rose, he led the way to their canoe.
“Thar’s a cave thar, sure’s a gun,” he muttered, as they skirted the bold shore once more, “an’ that smoke’s comin’ out on’t. I wish I dared stay here a little longer ’n’ hunt fer it.”
Old Cy was right, there was a cave there beneath the slate ledge–in fact, two caves; and in one, safe and secure, as its owner the notorious McGuire believed, were concealed the savings of his lifetime.
More than that, so near do we often come to an important discovery and miss it, Old Cy had twice leaned against a slab of slate closing the entrance to this cave and access to a fortune, the heritage of Chip McGuire.
Ray’s fears, while well founded, were needless, however. McGuire–for it was this outlaw whom they had ample reason to avoid–was many miles away. And yet so potent was the sense of danger, that neither Old Cy nor Ray thought of food, or ceased paddling one moment, until they had crossed the vast swamp and once more pulled their canoe out at the point where they had entered it the day before.
Here a brief halt for food and rest was taken; then they shouldered their light craft and started for Birch Camp.