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Ebitt moved over to me, studying the country as I did. "Have you got an idea where the stuff is?" "I think I know where it is." "Well, you're one up on me. I surely don't." Then I explained about the Maltese Cross in the cave. "I think the long arm of the cross was a deception... intended as a trap. I think the stuff is buried below it." "Could be." Cusbe lighted his pipe. "I wished those boys would get to us. I fear for them... and for us." "And I do. Shanagan was in bad shape." We waited out the day, snatching bits of rest, letting the horses crop grass and store strength for the coming race across the plains.

The shadows lengthened. They were waiting as well as we, but with darkness there would be renewed activity, and suddenly I decided that now was the time to move, now in the last moments of light.

We mounted, and moved out, pointing across the grass toward the outcropping. Somewhere a quail called inquiringly into the stillness, but there was no other sound but our horses' hooves in the grass.

At the outcropping, we drew up, merging our outline into the grayness of the rocks.

My rifle was over my shoulder on a sling, but the shotgun I carried in my hands. For a moment we were still, studying the edge of the woods, listening, waiting. There was no sound, yet I was worried.

"I believe they're waiting for us," I whispered to Heath. "I think they know where we are." "Then there'll be a fight." At the ragged pine leaning over the edge of the scarp, we drew rein. Swinging from the saddle, I handed the shotgun to Heath. "I'll go down alone.

Do you stand by with Lucinda." Before us lay the edge of the scarp, behind the open country we had crossed. Cusbe Ebitt swung to the ground, followed by Lucinda and Isaac. The position was not good, but there were a few low rocks, some brush, and a fallen tree. None were advantageously placed, but they offered slight shelter.

At this point, the scarp was all of sixty feet high, and I could but dimly make out what lay below. There were several possible routes down, and I chose what seemed the most simple.

Careful to dislodge no stone, I worked my way down, taking my time. There was no sound from above.

At the bottom, all remained still. It was too good, and I did not like it. A broken tree I had taken as a marker was close by the opening, but I did not immediately move that way. Something was now stirring down on the bottom but I could make out nothing. It sounded like horses... several of them.

Carefully, I edged along, looking for the mark.

The cave was near. Taking the Ferguson from my back, and checking the position of my pistol, I moved toward it.

Suddenly I was there, and I paused, drawing deeper into the shadows. All was at stake. I acted upon no knowledge, only a hunch, a feeling.

Nor would I be permitted much time for searching.

Even now my friends atop the scarp might be in danger of their lives. Indeed, they were at every minute they remained in this place.

The dark mouth of the cave yawned near me.

What awaited within? Van Runkle? It was possible. He, at least, knew this spot, and the others could have discovered it. Scholarship would help me not at all, only muscle, nerve, swiftness of action, and luck.

How much had I changed in the weeks since I rode away from the Mississippi and started west?

Or had the change not begun before that, when my wife died, and my son?

There were fires enough. Each year families died, homes were destroyed. Sparks from a fireplace, overturned candlesticks... there were many such accidents, and mine had been but one of these.

My tragedy was but one among many, but to me it was the only one. To me my wife and son were not statistics, but the heartbeat of my life.

Had the change begun then? Or was there, actually, any change at all? Had not these feelings, these instincts, been lying deep within me?

Holding myself still here beside a yawning black hole into wh soon I must go, I found myself ready to enter, ready and even anxious for what awaited within.

There had never been any of the cowardice in me that makes men move in gangs to hunt other men.

What fighting I had to do I wanted to do with equal weapons, with even terms. Yet the new wisdom I had acquired told me the enemy had no such scruples.

Suddenly, ducking my head, I went through the entrance into the dark coolness of the cavern.

Flattened against the wall, my back protected, I listened.

A moment I waited, holding my breath. The cave was cool, still. I heard no sound, no breathing, no chafe of clothing against a cave wall. I edged along, took a step, then another. No light now... I must work in darkness. I had counted the steps from the Maltese Cross to the cave mouth. Now I counted them back... found the branch cave I sought. A few steps too far now and I would plunge into t abyss... perhaps hundreds of feet deep.

There had been a round rock on the floor within inches of the cross. My toe touched it. Kneeling I felt of it, then felt along the wall for the cross.

The long arm of the cross pointed toward the abyss, but I was sure that was a trap or perhaps pure accident. I believed the treasure was buried beneath the cross. With my fingers, I probed the dust at the base of the cross.

Solid! My fingers felt for edges, and there were none, felt for softness, and all was hard. The cave floor had been undisturbed for years.

So there it was then. I had failed. It only remained for me to return, to go back the way I had come, get Lucinda and ride, trusting to my good companions to come when they could. Heath and Ebitt agreed it was the thing to do.

But empty-handed?

My hands felt the wall, searching for cracks my touch might find that sight had failed to perceive.

There was nothing.

A Maltese Cross has two arms, either of which could point at something, a bottom that could also be a pointer. But the top? Suddenly I felt upward, reaching as high as I could... nothing.

And I was a tall man, taller than most.

Yet my fingers did not reach the cave ceiling.

Somehow I had believed it was low, just above my head. Now I knew that was an illusion of the darkness, as the cave went higher still. Crouching by the wall, I considered that.

I was well back into the cave, yet to see what lay above I must have a torch. They were close at hand, some pine knots that would burn well and throw a good light. It was unlikely that such a light could be seen outside the cave, yet from the mountain opposite, it was possible.

Minutes were passing. How long had I been gone?

Feeling for the pine chunks, I found them, also a section of log from which pine slivers had been broken. Suddenly I realized it would make a good footstool. I could stand upon it and reach higher.

Edging it into position, I stood on it, balancing with my hands against the wall, then reached up.

My fingers encountered some sticky strings. A shiver went through me. I touched my fingers, which I had hastily jerked back. Not pitch, something slippery, wet. Moisture from a stalactite? No... there were no grains, no powdery-wet feeling.

What then?

Blood?... Blood!... But whose blood?

My hand went up again, again the wet finger, then buckskin... an arm, a fringed sleeve.

I must have a light. Feeling for flint and steel, I was stopped by a low moan.