“Shades of a purple skunk!” he cried out angrily. “There’s nothing here! Pshaw! The place is as clean and bare as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.”
The disappointment succeeding this announcement was keen. Dick’s shoulders slumped and his head drooped as he turned dejectedly and made his way back to the door. Toma was the only one who had anything to say.
“I tell you something, corporal. Mebbe no fur here now, but all same Murky Nichols use this place to make ’em cache. I know that.”
“How do you know it?” growled Dick.
“I tell by smell,” answered the guide.
“He’s right,” broke forth the corporal. “Fur has been stored here. I can detect a familiar odor myself.”
“But how do you explain it?” asked Dick. “You were under the impression that Nichols had a two-year supply of stolen fur here. What has become of it?”
“Unfortunately, I’m no wizard,” Rand answered a little testily, “or I might be able to answer your question. All I know is that Nichols has been shipping fur for the last three or four years. As I told you once before, we believe that a large shipment was taken from here to Seattle by someone, who either purchased the fur in good faith or who is a confederate of Murky’s. Perhaps this person comes up here oftener than we surmised. It may be that he has just recently cleaned out this cache and will return later for the fur now being brought here by pack-train. Of only one thing am I reasonably sure, and that is that this is the place where Nichols sends his shipments.”
“If we wait here, pretty soon pack-train will come. What you think?” Toma raised questioning eyes to the mounted policeman.
“Yes,” said Rand, “the pack-train will come here. We can’t miss it.”