orway
with Kars at his heels. They passed within.

As their eyes grew accustomed to the indifferent light, more of the
story of the place was set out for their reading. There were some
ammunition boxes. There were odds and ends of camp truck. But nothing
of any value remained, and the fact suggested, in combination with the
other signs, the looting of a victorious foe.

Kars was the first to offer comment.

"Do you guess it's possible----?"

"Allan held this shack?" Bill nodded. "These are all white men signs.
Those ammunition boxes. They're the same as we've loaded up at the
Fort many times. Sure. Allan held this shack, but he didn't die here.
Murray found what was left of him down below, way down the river.
Maybe he held this till his stores got low. Then he made a dash for
it, and--found it. It makes me sick thinking. Let's get out."

He turned away to the door and Kars followed him.

Kars had nothing to add. The picture of that hopeless fight left him
without desire to investigate further. It was almost the last fight of
the man who had made the happiness he now contemplated possible. His
heart bled for the girl who he knew had well-nigh worshiped her "daddy."

But Bill did not pass the doorway. At that moment the sharp crack of a
rifle split the air, and set the echoes of the gorge screaming. A
second later there was the vicious "spat" of a bullet on the sorely
tried logs of the shack. He stepped back under cover. But not before
a second shot rang out, and another bullet struck, and ricochetted,
hurtling through the air to lose itself in the pine woods above him.

"The play's started," was his undisturbed comment.

Kars nodded and his eyes lit. The emotions of the moment before had
fallen from him.

"Good!" he exclaimed. "Now for Mister Louis Creal."

Bill turned, and his twinkling eyes were thoughtful as they regarded
his friend.

"Ye-es."

But Kars was paying small attention. His eyes were shining with a
light such as is only seen in those who contemplate the things their
heart is set upon. In his mind there was no doubt, only conviction.

"We're not fighting those poor, darn-fool neches who fired those
shots," he cried in a sudden break from his usual reticence. "Maybe
they're the force but they aren't the brain. The brain behind this
play is Mister Louis Creal. Say, this thing's bigger than we guessed.
This Louis Creal runs these workings. Guess he's been running them