LITMIR.BIZ

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about water-tight. You don't see so many of 'em now."

      "You talk like an old-timer yourself." He scratched the box with his knife point. The scratch was bright. "This is silver," he decided, "otherwise it would have rusted to nothing, I should think. Must have lain there a long time."

      He tried to open it, but the lid, which fitted very closely, refused to move. After repeated trials he discovered that instead of lifting it swung.

      "I wonder what brand he smoked?" he said as it came back.

      But there was no tobacco. The interior was filled with a paper, folded so that it fitted neatly. This he pried out carefully. Beneath it was an odd-looking scrap of dried, parchmentlike skin, about the size of a silver dollar, to which wisps of straight, black hair still clung.

      "What in thunder is this?" he exclaimed.

      "Perhaps the paper will tell," I suggested.

      "Right, my son. I see I was mistaken. You will some day be a great detective." He unfolded the paper carefully. "Writing, sure enough!" he exclaimed. "Must have been a white man. Pencil writing, and pretty bad. Let's see if we can read it!"

      He smoothed it out flat on the sand, and we lay down on our stomachs to decipher it. The paper had apparently been old and crumpled before being written on. In addition, the writing was clumsy, faint, and shaky. In parts it was quite illegible, but this is what we finally made out:

      Dear Brother: I am writing this on the divide north of Shagenaw, because I am too sick to travel any more, and I guess this is my finish, for the pain in my side and bowels hits me worse every time. …

      Here several lines were quite undecipherable, and throughout there were parts which were entirely illegible.

      … to stand us off, and six men were killed. … Black Donald myself, not knowing who he was, and lucky for him, for if I had got him alive he would have died slow … went back on the bargain and wanted equal shares all round, and I had to pretend to agree, because they were, too many to stand off alone. But it turned out … away fast enough, and we found there was a big bunch after us, and headed us into … traveling faster than we could the way we … cache everything, and scatter, and meet again when it was safe; and they agreed, because it was that, or get caught.

      I took Joe Barbe with me, and left the rest, and we doubled back and watched the bunch go by. And then we raised the cache and made a new one. That is what I want to tell you about, because you know old Joe isn't all there at times since that time on the Slave, and, in case he forgets, here is how you will find it:

      The cache is on the Burntwood Lakes, on the one the Indians call Ahtikamag, on a creek on the west side of it, near the upper end. It is in a rock cave. We blocked up the mouth with rocks, and loosened down a little slide to make a good job, and there was a bigger slide than we thought, so it is blocked good and plenty. You will have to dig your way in, and be careful not to shake down more. The cave is dry and cold, so everything will be O. K.

      I was afraid to blaze a tree, or set up anything, because they will comb the country fine; but for landmarks there is a big hawks' nest right opposite the cache, on the far side of the creek, and downhill from the tree is a red rock with a flat top; and on that I marked a line. Lay your rifle along the line, and she will sight for the mouth of the cache.

      Now, these dogs went back on their bargain, and I have fooled them plenty. Don't tell them you know, or give them a share. Let them hunt for the cache till they give up. Then get about four big canoes, and men you can trust, and go after it yourself. … saw better nor anything like them in my life, and no one else. You would hardly believe … worth a hun … to see you again, but I guess I am out of luck. So good-by. Your loving brother,

      Angus McNab.

      P.S.—I am putting in a lock of Black Donald's hair, because you hated him about like I did. I told him I would get him before I died, and I am glad I did. Use this box, and think of me once in a while. Use old Joe right, because he stayed with me.

      When we had finished reading this remarkable message from the past—and it was not at all easy to read—Jim Dunleath looked at me with lifted brows.

      "Well, my son," said he, "what have we struck? Who on earth is—or was—Angus McNab?"

      "I never heard of him."

      "He must have been a mighty hardbitten sport," he said, and lifted the scrap of skin and black hair gingerly. "By thunder! Bob, this belonged to some gentleman called 'Black Donald,' and Angus McNab scalped him!"

      I nodded, my eyes bulging at the grisly memento of bygone feud and hate.

      "But what is the letter about, anyway?" he went on. "It's disjointed—written by a sick man—and he rambles. Now let's see: McNab and some tough bunch of which he seems to have been the leader fought for something valuable and won out. They quarreled over the spoils. About then they had to make a get-away from some party that outnumbered them. So they cached whatever it was, and McNab lifted it and cached it again. It was bulky, or heavy, because they couldn't travel with it, and, anyway, that part about the canoes settles it. Then, having fooled his companions, McNab took sick. As he describes it, I'll bet it was appendicitis—and he wrote this note to his brother and gave it to Joe Barbe. If Barbe is this skeleton—or the skeleton Barbe—his brother never saw it. And that is likely from the way we found the letter in the box. So the chances are that whatever they cached is there still."

      "But what was it?" I asked. "Gold?"

      "Not likely. He tells his brother to bring about four canoes. He couldn't have four canoe loads of gold. He says it is worth 'a hun——' That must mean a hundred. A hundred what?"

      "A hundred dollars!" I suggested foolishly.

      "Pshaw! Nobody would bother caching a hundred dollars. A hundred wouldn't weigh anything. He must mean a hundred thousand at the least."

      "Gosh!" I breathed. "That's a whole bunch of money."

      "Think so, Bob?" he said dryly. "Well, it is—when you haven't got it. Not so much when you have. I know a fellow who got rid of that much in a couple of years."

      "He must have been a darn fool," I said candidly.

      "So he was. And, as the Wise Man of the East remarked: 'A fool and his father's money are soon parted.' Well, where are these Burntwood Lakes the letter speaks of?"

      "It's up North. Up the Brulé River, I think. I don't know just where. I guess Tom Ballou would know."

      "Well," he said, "when we get back we'll ask him about it. And now let's cover up the bones of old Joe Barbe, and put up a cairn or a cross or something just as a mark of respect from humans to an ex-human. And then let's get out of here. I don't think I want to camp on this lake to-night."

      5. Nitche M'Nab

      CHAPTER V.

       Table of Contents

      NITCHE M'NAB.

      When, a week after, we sighted Ballou's cabin there was smoke coming from the chimney. It was noon, and we were bucking a stiff head wind as well as current, and I for one was both tired and hungry.

      "Let's stop and eat with them," I suggested.

      "Good enough," Dunleath agreed. "I've got Fothergill's letter in my war bags somewhere. And we can ask Ballou about this McNab. But I won't tell him we've found anything. We're after information, not out to give it."

      "Sure," I said. "I won't say a word."

      As it turned out old Hayes was at the cabin, too, and as much at home as any of them. But he and Louis did not seem on very good terms. I suppose because they had seen too much of each other. Tom Ballou read Mr. Fothergill's letter

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