"Here goes!" said Whitey. "We've got to use our match here!"
The flare of the match revealed an extensive underground corral, fenced off with heavy timbers; and in this enclosure were some twelve or fifteen cattle. As Whitey held the match higher, Injun slipped forward and examined the beast that stood blinking at him only a few feet away.
"Look!" said Injun, as excited as he ever permitted himself to be, and Whitey peered at the steer.
The right forefoot of the animal was badly split, exactly corresponding to the peculiar hoof-print that he had discovered near the creek; and on the flank of this and other animals was the plainly distinguishable brand of the Bar O!
As the match flickered and went out, the boys heard the voices of men as though coming from a door that had been suddenly opened, and foot-steps were plainly audible coming down the stairs behind them.
"Somebody's coming!" whispered Whitey as Injun clutched his arm. They must seek a hiding place at once, for the coming of the men in their rear cut off any retreat by way of the tunnel.
At the side of the corral was a rude platform or rick, upon which was piled a quantity of hay for the cattle, and with one accord the two boys darted toward this, but the momentary glance that they had given the spot, during the brief flicker of the match, had been insufficient for Whitey, at least, to get his bearings with accuracy; and even at the expense of the possibility of disclosing themselves, he was compelled to light another of the precious matches. The men were as yet some distance away, and around one of the turns, and he concluded that the light of the match would not be perceptible to them. It was not—neither was it perceptible to either Whitey or Injun! It was one of the sort of matches that are made to sell, not to burn; and after a brief and non-illuminating flame it went out!
"What do you think of that luck?" whispered Whitey, angrily. "There's nothing else to do but use the last one!"
There was plenty of time to light another one, but in his excitement Whitey dropped the last match he had upon the floor, and to search for it would have been hopeless! Alone in the dark and no matches!
Injun did the best he could by grabbing Whitey's hand and leading him to the hay-rick, and into this, with as little noise as possible—it seemed to Whitey that they made a fearful racket—the two boys climbed, uncertain of their way and ignorant as to how much concealment the place really afforded. "Any port in a storm," and there was certainly a storm coming!