and, walked back through the trees. Taking a careful look around, he then moved to the head of the draw and crouched down among the brush and rocks, waiting.
Several minutes passed with neither sound nor movement. Confident that he had not been followed, he moved back into the trees.
Mowatt now knew the cabin was there. If he hadnât already torn the place up looking for what he hoped to find, he almost surely would. Waiting where he was, Chantry sat down and considered again what he knew of his brother.
Had Clive hidden it there? Or had he hidden it elsewhere? Clive had always been a cautious man, who left no page unturned, no aspect unregarded.
What could the clue be? And where?
He and Clive had been much apart, yet there had always been understanding between them, and a taste for the same things. Clive had been more bookish and, if anything, even more of a loner than Owen.
His love for wild country had been deep and abiding. His understanding of it, also. There had been a kind of poetry in the man. He was a man who could live richly and well without money, as long as he had wild country and books.
He must try and place himself in Cliveâs position.
Clive had not intended to leave here, but to stay. He would have considered all aspects of what that meantâincluding being killed or dying. He would have planned to leave some word behind for Owen.
Mounting his horse again, Owen wove a careful way through the aspens. It was no simple thing, for the trunks stood close together, and there were many deadfalls.
The wood of the aspens broke easily and was subject to attacks from insects as well. Consequently they fell, making travel difficult. Many wild flowers that grew under the aspens sprang up quickly as a rule. It was an unexpected route he was taking, so his tracks might not likely be found.
When he drew near the cabin he dismounted and led the black into a shadowed place where the growth was thick. He tied it, leaving line enough so the gelding could crop the grass and flowers close by.
Moving out of the aspens into a thick stand of spruces, he worked his way closer to the cabin, then squatted down and watched it for several minutes. His eyes searched the grass and could discern no evidence of passage since dewfall. No smoke came from the chimney.
He must spend as little time as possible inside the cabin. He pictured it in his mind and went over each wall with a careful mental scrutiny. Then he devoted some time to the chimney, made of slabs of country rock, carefully fitted. He was mentally searching the cabin to cut down the time he must spend inside. But he found no likely hiding place there for treasure.
The walls were solidâcarefully hewn logs fitted with care and precision. The windows, of which there were three, were actually little more than enlarged portholes, a little taller than wide, each closed by solid shutters that were tightly fitted and double-latched in the middle. They could thus be kept small, and the shutters could be set ajar to direct a breeze into any corner of the room. Yet the windows had been cut through solid logs and offered no hiding places.
The hearth was possible. But knowing Clive, Owen dismissed it at once. The hearth was too apparent, and whatever Clive might do he would never be so obvious.
Noâ¦it would have to be a clue that would be a clue to Owen alone. Some interest, some knowledge they shared; something Clive would know Owen would understand and that would be understood by no one else.
Rifle in hand, he left his cover and walked across to the cabin. Lifting the latch, he thrust open the door. It creaked on its hinges and swung slowly inward. The room was empty.
Standing just inside the door, Owen Chantry listened, but heard nothing. A quick glance around the house showed no evidence of anyoneâs presence there since his last visit.
Turning slowly around, he looked for anything he might have missed in his mental survey of the cabin. He found
Several minutes passed with neither sound nor movement. Confident that he had not been followed, he moved back into the trees.
Mowatt now knew the cabin was there. If he hadnât already torn the place up looking for what he hoped to find, he almost surely would. Waiting where he was, Chantry sat down and considered again what he knew of his brother.
Had Clive hidden it there? Or had he hidden it elsewhere? Clive had always been a cautious man, who left no page unturned, no aspect unregarded.
What could the clue be? And where?
He and Clive had been much apart, yet there had always been understanding between them, and a taste for the same things. Clive had been more bookish and, if anything, even more of a loner than Owen.
His love for wild country had been deep and abiding. His understanding of it, also. There had been a kind of poetry in the man. He was a man who could live richly and well without money, as long as he had wild country and books.
He must try and place himself in Cliveâs position.
Clive had not intended to leave here, but to stay. He would have considered all aspects of what that meantâincluding being killed or dying. He would have planned to leave some word behind for Owen.
Mounting his horse again, Owen wove a careful way through the aspens. It was no simple thing, for the trunks stood close together, and there were many deadfalls.
The wood of the aspens broke easily and was subject to attacks from insects as well. Consequently they fell, making travel difficult. Many wild flowers that grew under the aspens sprang up quickly as a rule. It was an unexpected route he was taking, so his tracks might not likely be found.
When he drew near the cabin he dismounted and led the black into a shadowed place where the growth was thick. He tied it, leaving line enough so the gelding could crop the grass and flowers close by.
Moving out of the aspens into a thick stand of spruces, he worked his way closer to the cabin, then squatted down and watched it for several minutes. His eyes searched the grass and could discern no evidence of passage since dewfall. No smoke came from the chimney.
He must spend as little time as possible inside the cabin. He pictured it in his mind and went over each wall with a careful mental scrutiny. Then he devoted some time to the chimney, made of slabs of country rock, carefully fitted. He was mentally searching the cabin to cut down the time he must spend inside. But he found no likely hiding place there for treasure.
The walls were solidâcarefully hewn logs fitted with care and precision. The windows, of which there were three, were actually little more than enlarged portholes, a little taller than wide, each closed by solid shutters that were tightly fitted and double-latched in the middle. They could thus be kept small, and the shutters could be set ajar to direct a breeze into any corner of the room. Yet the windows had been cut through solid logs and offered no hiding places.
The hearth was possible. But knowing Clive, Owen dismissed it at once. The hearth was too apparent, and whatever Clive might do he would never be so obvious.
Noâ¦it would have to be a clue that would be a clue to Owen alone. Some interest, some knowledge they shared; something Clive would know Owen would understand and that would be understood by no one else.
Rifle in hand, he left his cover and walked across to the cabin. Lifting the latch, he thrust open the door. It creaked on its hinges and swung slowly inward. The room was empty.
Standing just inside the door, Owen Chantry listened, but heard nothing. A quick glance around the house showed no evidence of anyoneâs presence there since his last visit.
Turning slowly around, he looked for anything he might have missed in his mental survey of the cabin. He found
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