fficulty drew himself upon the ledge. He was now
in front of the cavern which he had visited by daylight, and whose
interior was impressed so vividly on his memory that he knew every foot
of it.

"Is the younker in there?" was the question he asked himself after
regaining his feet. To test the matter, he called his name. The fierce
torrent roared below and around him, but he was sure his words must have
penetrated into the dismal recesses. He repeated the call several times
without response.

"It may be the younker is asleep, or, if he hears me, he may take me fur
Motoza; and yet that couldn't be, for our voices don't sound alike."

Once more he produced his rubber safe and struck a match, holding the
twinkling flame above his head as he slowly moved forward into the
cavern. Before the light expired he had another, for he intended to make
his search thorough.

The opening in the side of the canyon had a width of ten or twelve feet,
was of the same height, and extended back for more than double the
distance. Side, floor and roof were of irregular formation, and the
craggy stones rough and wet. Had there been any gleaming stalactites or
stalagmites in sight, the cause of the legend attaching to the place
would have been understood, but there was nothing of that nature. The
cavern was simply a rent in the side of the canyon wall, created by some
convulsion of nature, and all that was visible was damp limestone.

By the time the visitor had burned three matches his examination of the
place was completed and he had made the discovery that he was the only
occupant. Fred Greenwood was not there, nor did the cavern show signs of
having been visited by person or animal.

But hold! When Hank threw down the last expiring match, he caught a
glimpse of something white on the flinty floor. He had not thought of
looking for anything, and it was the accidental following of the match
with his gaze that revealed the object. Instantly another match was
sending out its feeble rays, and he stooped down and picked up that
which had arrested his attention.

It was a piece of paper, apparently the blank leaf of a letter. There
was no writing or mark on it to indicate its ownership, but had it been
the visiting-card of Fred Greenwood, Hank Hazletine could not have been
more positive that it belonged to the young man.

It was impossible that Motoza should carry writing-paper with him. The
cowman never did so, consequently he could not h