The place was deserted. The cabin was sparsely furnished, with a rude table, two chairs, and bunks on either side. There was a small iron stove at the far end of the building and the place was dimly lighted by one window.
There was every evidence that the outlaws had left the place in a hurry. Papers, articles of clothing and rubbish of all kinds lay about the floor, scattered here and there in abandon. One of the chairs was lying overturned on the floor. The place was in confusion.
The boys entered.
"Looks as if they didn't waste much time in getting out," remarked Joe.
"I'll say they didn't. The cabin looks as if a cyclone had hit it."
"Wonder if there'd be any use looking through those papers." Joe indicated a scattered heap of old envelopes, letters, tattered magazines and torn sheets of paper lying on the floor.
"That's just what I was thinking." Frank scooped up a handful of the papers and sat down on a bunk. He began to sort them over. The magazines he flung to one side as worthless. Some of the sheets of paper contained nothing but crude attempts at drawing or penciled lists of figures presumably done by some of the outlaws while idling away their time in the cabin.
One or two of the letters, Frank put to one side, as liable to give some clue to the identity of members of the gang. When he had looked through the first handful of papers he picked up some more.
Suddenly he gave an exclamation of satisfaction.
"Find something?" asked Joe.