Blakely lost pretty much everything, except some
papers in an iron box--the box that was warped all out of shape."
"Where is it now?" asked Plume, tugging at the strap of a dressing
case and laying it open on the broad window-seat.
"In my quarters, under my bed, sir."
"Isn't that rather--unsafe?" asked Plume. "Think how quick _he_ was
burned out."
"Best I can do, sir. But he said it contained little of value, mainly
letters and memoranda. No valuables at all, in fact. The lock wouldn't
work, so the blacksmith strap-ironed it for him. That prevents it
being opened by anyone, you know, who hasn't the proper tools."
"I see," said Plume reflectively. "It seems rather unusual to take
such precaution with things of no value. I suppose Blakely knows his
own business, however. Thank you very much Truman. Good-night."
"I suppose he did, at least, when he had the blacksmith iron that
box," thought Truman, as he trudged away. "He did, at any rate, when
he made me promise to keep it with the utmost care. Not even you can
have it, Major Plume, although you are the post commander."
CHAPTER XVII
A STRANGE COMING
With one orderly and a pair of Apache Yuma scouts, Neil Blakely had
set forth in hopes of making his way to Snow Lake, far up in the range
to the east.
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