"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 as follows:

"The plan will work perfectly, and all we must do is to wait until the money is at the fort. I am sure the soldiers will leave as requested, and the defense will amount to little or nothing. Will see to it that Colonel Fairfield is drugged, and will treat Captain Moore and the other officers the same way, if I can get the chance."

CHAPTER XVII.

THREE PRISONERS.

It did not take Joe and Darry long to retrace their steps at the water-course. They continued to call to the young captain, and once Joe shot off his rifle as a signal, but, as we know, no answer came back.

"I can't understand this at all," said Joe, when they halted near the shelter. "I didn't hear him do any firing, did you?"

"Not a shot," answered Darry. "He must have gone away from the brook instead of along the bank."

The two boys hung around the shelter for some time, and then decided to follow up the trail left by the young officer.

This was easy for part of the distance, but soon the footprints became so indistinct that they came to another halt.

"Stumped!" muttered Joe. "We might as well go back to the shelter and wait till he returns. One thing is certain, he hasn't found any game, or we would have heard the firing."

Tired by their long tramp the boys sat down in the shelter, thinking that Captain Moore would return at any moment.

Thus an hour was pa.s.sed. It was now noon, and Joe and Darry set to work to prepare dinner for themselves.

The repast was just finished when Joe let out a cry of alarm.

"Matt Gilroy!"

He was right. The captain of the desperadoes had appeared, followed by several others.

The boys were taken completely off their guard. Darry made a clutch for his rifle, but on the instant Gilroy had him covered.

"Leave the gun alone!" cried the rascal. "Leave it alone, or it will be the worse for you."

"What do you want?" questioned Joe.

"We want you to behave yourselves," answered Fetter, who was in the crowd.

"You played us a nice trick that time you escaped from the cave,"

growled Gilroy, eying Joe darkly.

"Do you blame me for wanting to get away?"

"Hardly. But I'll warrant you won't get away again."

"Then you consider me your prisoner?"

"I do."