"Glad you haven't," Constable Beresford replied cheerfully--so very
cheerfully in fact that Morse suspected he would not have been much
daunted if objections had been mentioned. "Perhaps you'll help me with
my little job, then."

The trader grinned. He might as well go the limit with the bluff he
was playing. "Sure. I'll help you make a fourth o' July outa the kegs.
Lead me to 'em."

"You don't know where they are, of course?"

"In the gully, you said," Morse replied innocently

"So I did. Righto. Down you go, then." The constable turned to Barney.
"You next, friend."

A well-defined trail led down the steep side of the gulch. It ended in
a thick growth of willow saplings. Underneath the roof of this foliage
were more than a score of whiskey-casks.

After ten minutes with the rifle butt there was nothing to show for
the cache but broken barrels and a trough of wet sand where the liquor
had run down the bed of the dry gully.

It was time, Morse thought, to play his own small part in the
entertainment.

"After you, gentlemen," Beresford said, stepping aside to let them
take the trail up.