“It looks to me as if this is about five or six feet below the surface of the ground and quite a few people could stay here but not for long,” Jim remarked.
“It would protect anyone who got in, from being butchered, or in case the ranch houses were burned,” Carl suggested.
“Perhaps that was it, but I don’t see why all the paper,” Jim argued.
“Neither do I unless they had books, accounts and that sort of thing. Some of the descendants could have used it as a safe-deposit, but I haven’t got another guess. Come on and see how Bob and Kramer are.”
They didn’t wait to do more than throw a few pieces of plank over the openings, and then with new torches they made their way to the bunk house, which was pitch dark. Jim caught Carl’s arm and instinctively the two stepped as softly as the hard snow would permit. When they reached the door, Austin listened, but not a sound came from inside. He tapped softly, his heart hammering against his ribs, with dread lest some thing had happened to his Flying Buddy and Kramer. He wished heartily that they hadn’t lingered so long.
“Knock again,” Carl whispered and Jim did. There was a soft movement from inside, the bar was lifted carefully, and finally the door moved, but only wide enough to permit the barrel of a gun to be poked through.
“Hands up or I’ll blow you up—”
“Buddy—Bob—”
“Oh, why the heck did you come sneaking around like a pair of coyotes? I heard a dozen things since you left. Come on in. Get anything to eat?” The two entered and the younger boy turned up the wick of a small lantern. “Gosh, I thought you fellows had been buried.”
“No, but we got word to the sheriff,” Carl explained. “How’s Kramer?”