Old Cy was, above all, a peaceable man, and while curiosity had led him to follow the trail of this robber and to cross this vast swamp, now that he saw the suggestive smoke sign, he hesitated about venturing nearer.

“I guess we’d best be keerful,” he whispered to Ray, “or we may wish we had been. I callate our pirate friend’s got a hidin’ spot over thar, ’n’ most likely don’t want callers. He may be only a queer old trapper a little short o’ scruples ag’in’ takin’ what he finds, ’n’ then ag’in he may be worse’n that. His campin’ spot’s ag’in’ him, anyhow.”

But the sun was now very low; a camp site must soon be found, and scarce two minutes from the time he saw this rising column of smoke, Old Cy dipped his paddle and slowly drew back into the protecting forest. Once well out of sight, the canoe was turned and they sped back down-stream and into the swamp once more. Here he turned aside into a lagoon they had passed, and at its head they pulled their canoe out into the bog.

The two gathered up their belongings, and picking their way out of the morass, reached the belt of hard bottom skirting the ridge. They were now out of sight from the lake, but still too near the stream to risk a camp-fire, and so Old Cy led the way along this belt until a more secluded niche in the ridge was reached, and here they began camp-making. It was a simple process. A level spot was cleared from brush, two convenient saplings denuded of their lower limbs, a cross pole was placed in suitable crotches, near-by spruces were attacked with the axe, and a bark wigwam soon resulted, and just as the darkness began to gather, a fire was started.

Both Old Cy and Ray had worked with a will, and none too soon was so much accomplished, for night was upon them, and only by the firelight could they see to complete the needful preparations.

A peculiar effect of the time, place, and their position was also noticeable; for although at least a mile away from where this smoke sign had warned them, and screened from it by a high ridge, both spoke only in whispers. More than that, the camp-fire was kept low, barely enough to cook a modest meal, and when the flame chanced to flare up, Old Cy glanced aloft into the tree-tops to see if they were illumed. Not much was said, for Old Cy’s thoughts were far away, and when supper was eaten he lit his pipe and sat watching the embers while Ray studied him. Ray, too, spoke scarcely a word. All that day he had felt much the same, and while he had the most implicit confidence in Old Cy’s wisdom, now that he had advised retreat, the reasons for it became ten times more ominous to Ray.

Then again, the sombre nook in which they had camped and the vast swamp that lay between them and the protecting cabin, all had an effect. This weird feeling was also added to by the occasional cry of some night prowler far away in the forest or out in the swamp. Chip’s spites, those uncanny creatures of the imagination, also began to gather, and Ray fancied he could hear them crawling cautiously about.

“I don’t like this,” he whispered at last, “and I wish we hadn’t come. Don’t you think we had better go back soon as it’s daylight?”

“Wal, mebbe,” answered Old Cy, smiling at Ray’s nervousness. “I’ve kinder figgered we might watch out from a-top o’ the ridge when mornin’ came ’n’ see what we kin see. We might ketch sight o’ the pirate chap ’cross the lake.”“But suppose he catches sight of us,” returned Ray, “what then?”

“I don’t mean he shall,” answered Old Cy, “so don’t git skeered. I’ll take keer on ye.”

That night, however, was the longest ever passed by Ray, for not until near morning did he fall into a fitful slumber, and scarcely had he lost himself before Old Cy was up and watching for the dawn.

Its first faint glow was visible when Ray’s eyes opened, and without waiting for fire or breakfast, they started for the top of the ridge. From here a curious sight met their eyes, for the lake and also the ridges out of which the smoke had risen were hidden beneath a white pall of fog. Back of them also, and completely coating the immense swamp, was the same sea of vapor. It soon vanished with the rising sun, and just as the ledges across the lake outlined themselves, once more that smoke sign rose aloft.

And now the two watchers could better see whence it came. Old Cy had expected to obtain sight of some hut or bark shack nestling among these rocks; but none was visible. Instead, the smoke rose out of a jagged rock, and there was not a cabin roof or sign of one anywhere.“That feller’s in a cave,” he whispered to Ray, “an’ the smoke’s comin’ out o’ a crack, sure’s a gun!”

It seemed so, and for a half-hour the two watched it in silent amazement.

Then came another surprise, for suddenly Old Cy caught sight of a man just emerging from behind a rock fully ten rods from the rising smoke; he stooped, lifted a canoe into view, advanced to the shore, slid it halfway into the water, returned to the rock, picked up a rifle, then pushed the canoe off, and, crossing the lake, vanished into the outlet.

The two watchers on the ridge exchanged glances.

“He’s goin’ to tend his traps, an’ mebbe ourn,” Old Cy said at last, and then led the way back to their bark shack. Here he halted, and placing one hand scoop-fashion over his ear, listened intently until he caught the faint sound of a paddle touching a canoe gunwale. First slightly, then a more distinctive thud, and then less and less until the sound ceased.

“The coast’s clear,” he added, now in an exultant whisper, “an’ while the old cat’s away we’ll take a peek at his den.”

A hurried gathering of their few belongings was made, the canoe was shoved into the lagoon, and no time was lost until the lake was crossed and they drew alongside of where the smoke was still rising in a thin film. No landing was possible here, for the shore was a sheer face of upright slate, and only where this lone trapper had launched his canoe could they make one.

From here a series of outcropping slate ledges rose one above another, and between them and parallel to the shore, narrow, irregular passages partially closed by broken rock. It was all of slaty formation, jagged, serrated, and gray with moss.

Following one of these passages, Old Cy and Ray came to the ledge out of which the smoke was rising from a crevasse. It was a little lower than one in front, perhaps forty feet in breadth, double that in length, and of a more even surface. At each end was a short transverse passage hardly wide enough to walk in, and a few feet deep.

And now, after a more careful examination of the crevasse out of which the thin film of smoke rose, Old Cy began a search. Up and down each narrow passway he peeped and peered, but nowhere was a crack or cranny to be found in their walls. In places they were as high as his head, sheer faces of slate, then broken, serrated, moss-coated, or of yellow, rusty color. Here and there a stunted spruce had taken root in some crack, and over, back from the topmost ledge, this green enclosure began and continued up the low mountain. Here, also, in a sunny nook below this belting tangle of scrub spruce, were ample signs of a trapper’s occupation in the way of pelts stretched upon forked sticks and hanging from a cord crossing this niche. They were of the usual species found in this wilderness,–a dozen muskrat, with a few mink and otter skins and one lynx.

Another sign of human presence was also noted, for here a log showing axe-marks, with split wood and chips all about, was seen.

“Some o’ them pelts is ourn,” Old Cy ejaculated, glancing at the array, “an’ I’ve a notion we’d best hook on to ’em. Mebbe not, though,” he added a moment later, “it might git us into more trouble.”

But Ray was getting more and more uneasy each moment since they had landed there. It seemed to him a most dangerous exploit, and while Old Cy had hunted over this curious confusion of slate ledges and stared at the rising film of smoke, Ray had covertly watched the lake’s outlet.

“I don’t think we’d better stay here much longer,” he said at last. “We can’t tell how soon that man may come back and catch us.”“Guess you’re right,” Old Cy asserted tersely, and after one more look at the inch-wide crack out of which the smoke rose, he led the way to their canoe.

“Thar’s a cave thar, sure’s a gun,” he muttered, as they skirted the bold shore once more, “an’ that smoke’s comin’ out on’t. I wish I dared stay here a little longer ’n’ hunt fer it.”

Old Cy was right, there was a cave there beneath the slate ledge–in fact, two caves; and in one, safe and secure, as its owner the notorious McGuire believed, were concealed the savings of his lifetime.

More than that, so near do we often come to an important discovery and miss it, Old Cy had twice leaned against a slab of slate closing the entrance to this cave and access to a fortune, the heritage of Chip McGuire.

Ray’s fears, while well founded, were needless, however. McGuire–for it was this outlaw whom they had ample reason to avoid–was many miles away. And yet so potent was the sense of danger, that neither Old Cy nor Ray thought of food, or ceased paddling one moment, until they had crossed the vast swamp and once more pulled their canoe out at the point where they had entered it the day before.Here a brief halt for food and rest was taken; then they shouldered their light craft and started for Birch Camp.

In the meantime another canoe was ascending this winding stream, and long before nightfall, Pete Bolduc, sure that he was on the trail of McGuire, entered the ledge-bordered lake.