The Golden Trail

He was positive that Morrissey had come in here, equally positive that he had not gone out again. There were no returning footprints, save marks that had been scuffed and were old. He picked up the fourth gold piece.

He made a little torch from some paper he had in his pocket and examined the bedding, concluding that it was used by someone who played outer sentinel. There must be some exit to the hideout other than by the way he had entered. The paper charred down to his fingers and he had seen nothing but the rough walls, mounting upward into blackness, his light unable to reach the top.

Close to the bedding lay some rough sticks. He picked one of them up. It was a resinous pine knot. These were torches, and he used one of them more boldly, still on his guard, but convinced that the man he was hunting had somehow, somewh