"That's the minimum, I'm afraid."
"It's a bad beginning," said Roger. He walked to and fro, fretting. "Doesn't it make your blood boil?" he continued. "Look at the way the brutes have tossed the things about. I'd give a good deal to have a few of them here."
Lionel sat down on a box and stared meditatively at the wreck. "Roger," he said at length. "Have you any idea what stores were brought up the hill last night?"
"Mostly the bow-stores, I suppose; provisions, bedding, and camp gear."
"That's what I was afraid," said Lionel.
"What are you afraid of?"
"Come on. Let's face it," said Lionel, springing from his perch. "We must get these things out of the mud. We must see how we stand."
"You mean we may be— What do you mean?"
"We must see what stores are left to us."
They set to work together to pick up the wreck. They began with cartridges, which had been scattered broadcast in wantonness. Many were spoiled; many missing. Marks on the grass shewed that others had been carefully emptied, so that the thieves might have the brass shells enclosing the charges. Still, a good many were to be found. The two men recovered about fifty rounds of Winchester, and eighty rounds of revolver ammunition. With what they wore in their belts this amount was reassuring.