life-blood of the murdered John Ball might have ebbed away. In this
cabin the men whose skeletons he had found had slept, and planned, and
measured their gold. And the gold! It was that and not the stub that
interested Roderick Drew! Where was the lost treasure? Surely the old
cabin must hold some clue for them, it would at least tell them more
than the limbless white corpse of a tree!

From the door he looked back into the dank gloom, straining his eyes
to see, and then glanced across the opening. Wabi had reached the
stub, and both he and Mukoki were on their knees beside it. Probably
they have found the marks of a lynx or a bear, thought Rod. A dozen
paces away something else caught his eyes, a fallen red pine, dry and
heavy with pitch, and in less than a minute he had gone to it and was
back with a torch. Breathlessly he touched the tiny flame of a match
to the stick. For a moment the pitch sputtered and hissed, then flared
into light, and Rod held the burning wood above his head.

The young gold seeker's first look about him was disappointing.
Nothing but the bare walls met his eyes. Then, in the farthest corner,
he observed something that in the dancing torch-light was darker than
the logs themselves, and he moved toward it. It was a tiny shelf, not
more than a foot long, and upon it was a small tin box, black and
rust-eaten by the passing of ages. With trembling fingers Rod took it
in his hand. It was very light, probably empty. In it he might find
the dust of John Ball's last tobacco. Then, suddenly, as he thought of
this, he stopped in his search and a muffled exclamation of surprise
fell from him. In the glow of the torch he looked at the tin box. It
was crumbling with age and he might easily have crushed it in his
hand--and yet it was still a tin box! If this box had remained why
had not other things? Where were the pans and kettles, the pail and