Within the four walls of the cabin there remained not a single ounce of flour, or beans, or tea, or bacon. But not alone because the cache had been rifled was Connie seized with the blind fury that left him white and shaking, nor was it because the five hundred-odd pounds of dry fish, which had been laid by for dog feed, was scattered promiscuously about the floor and bunk, but because of the abject wantonness, the abysmal meanness of soul that had caused the marauders to smash the little sheet-iron stove into a useless pile of junk. The voice of Rickey calling from the sled aroused the boy from his transport of rage. With a bound he reached the door.
"Someone has busted the cache!" he cried hoarsely, "and scattered the fish, and smashed the stove!" Suddenly he leaped for the sled. "Get off there and give me that carbine! They didn't have any dogs or sled. They're packing the stuff afoot. I'll put this old ten-team on their trail and I'll— You bet they'll wish they never saw Hart River cabin!"
"Hold on there, kid," soothed Rickey, as he stared up into the face of the youngest recruit in the Yukon. "Le's don't go off half-cocked. Jest
