Breathlessly he touched the tiny flame of a match to the stick.

For a moment the pitch sputtered and hissed, then flared into light, and Rod held the burning wood above his head.
The young gold seeker's first look about him was disappointing.
Nothing but the bare walls met his eyes.

Then, in the farthest corner, he observed something that in the dancing torch-light was darker than the logs themselves, and he moved toward it.

It was a tiny shelf, not more than a foot long, and upon it was a small tin box, black and rust-eaten by the passing of ages.

With trembling fingers Rod took it in his hand.