They were ascending a narrow trail which ran 256 along the sidehill through the timber. Presently they topped the summit, and the ground fell away from their feet to a bowl-shaped valley, over which the silvery moonshine played so that the basin seemed to swim in a magic sea of light.
“Welcome to the Cache,” he said to her.
She was surprised out of her silence. “Dead Man’s Cache?”
“It has been called that.”
“Why?”
She knew, but she wanted to see if he would tell a story which showed so plainly his own ruthlessness.
He hesitated, but only for a moment.
“There was a man named Havens. He had a reputation as a bad man, and I reckon he deserved it—if brand blotting, mail rustling, and shooting citizens are the credentials to win that title. Hard pressed on account of some deviltry, he drifted into this country, and was made welcome by those living here. The best we had was his. He was fed, outfitted, and kept safe from the law that was looking for him.
“You would figure he was under big obligations to the men that did this for him—wouldn’t you? But he was born skunk. When his chance came he offered to betray these men to the law, in exchange for a pardon for his own sneaking hide. The letter was found, and it was proved he wrote it. What ought those men to have done to him, Miss ’Lissie?” 257
“I don’t know.” She shuddered.