the hoofbeats outside had entirely ceased, then called
to Potts.

"Where are they going?" he asked.

"That's Captain Gilroy's business," was the answer.

"Oh, so you call Gilroy captain now?"

"We do."

"How many men is he captain of?"

"About thirty, if you're anxious to know."

"Thirty! There are not that number of desperadoes within three hundred
miles of this place."

"All right, if you know better than I do."

"Has the captain gone off for the rest of my party?"

"Perhaps he has."

"It won't do him any good to make them prisoners."

"I reckon he knows his own business best, Captain Moore."

"And what will you get out of this affair, Potts?"

"Me? I'll get my share when we make another haul."

"Do you expect to make another haul soon?"

"As I said afore, better ask the captain. We're organized into a regular
company now, and all the privates like me have to do is to obey orders.
You know how it is in the regular army."

"A company of desperadoes," mused Captain Moore. "That's something we
haven't had out here in years."

Potts would talk no more after this, but sat down on a rock to smoke
his pipe and continue his guard duty.

The young captain had had his hands bound tightly behind him, and, try
his best, he found himself unable to either break or slip his bonds.

He was anxious concerning himself, but he was even more upset concerning
his brother and his cousin.

"If they kick up a fuss, more than likely Gilroy and the others will
shoot them down!" he groaned. "It's too bad! I thought we would have a
splendid time hunting, and here we are, falling into all sorts of
difficulties."

As impatient as he was, he could do nothing but stalk around the cave.
The place was five yards wide by over a hundred feet long. To the rear
was a rude fireplace, the smoke drifting through some wide cracks
overhead. A small fire was burning, and he kicked a fresh log on the
blaze, which soon gave him more light. Then he sat down again.

As he rested, his eyes roamed around the rocky apartment, and presently
fell upon a sheet of paper lying under the table. Curious to know what
it might contain, he bent down backwards, and by an effort secured the
paper and placed it upon the table. Then, by the flickering flames, he
tried to make out the writing it contained.

The letter--for such the sheet proved to be--was a communication which
had been sent to Matt Gilroy by a writer who signed himself Mose. It ran
a