the guns, carried the cartridges, together with twenty-five or thirty unopened boxes of ammunition to the cliff, and tossed them over the edge. Returning to the cabin, he closed the door, slipped the hasp over the staple as he had found it, and retired to the shelter of the timber to think. The boy had formulated no plan—the removal of the cartridges had been done on the spur of the moment—they were guns of the enemy, and therefore were safer empty,—he had drawn the fangs of the serpent—that's all. But, for all that, he was in a serious quandary—undecided as to his next move. Should he summon McKeever? Or explore the trail that entered the timber—undoubtedly, the trail to the mysterious Henderson's Creek? Connie gazed out across the valley of Cameron Creek. Because of his forced march in the early grey of the morning, he reasoned that the older officer would be still above the mouth of the cleft and in all probability would remain within sound of his shots for several hours to come. The small jaw clamped shut, and the boy stepped into the trail that slanted steeply toward the south.
Evidently, on this side of the divide the gang felt secure from interference, for little precaution
