Placed neatly, lying side by side, their metal
surfaces winking back at the light of Norton's match, were a number of
rifles. A score of them, fifty, perhaps.
"It looks like a young revolution!" she cried, her gaze held, her eyes
fascinated by the unexpected.
"You've seen about everything now," he told her, the red ember of a
burnt-out match dropping to the floor. "Those boxes contain
cartridges. Now let's go back to Brocky."
"But they'll see that you have been here. . . ."
"I'll come back in a minute with the lantern; I want a further chance
to look things over. Then I'll put the blanket back and see that not
even that charred match gives us away. And we'd better be eating and
getting started."
With a steaming tin of black coffee before her, a brown piece of bacon
between her fingers, she forgot to eat or drink while she listened to
Norton's story. At the beginning it seemed incredible; then, her
thoughts sweeping back over the experiences of these last twenty-four
hours, her eyes having before them the picture of a sheriff, grim-faced
and determined, a wounded man lying just beyond the fire, the rough,
rudely arched walls and ceiling of a cave man's dwelling about her, she
deemed that what Norton knew and suspected was but the thing to be
expected.
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