"Come
here!"

"Comin', lady. Did you find it?"

"Look here." Polly was at the side of an old cart, peering and poking
through the sticks of wood and bits of old straw which filled it. "See,
down there--doesn't that look to you like something?"

Sam Penhallow felt a sudden thrill; a thrill he had not known the like of
since he led the posse across the border after the kidnapping bandit. He
bent an excited gray eye over the hole indicated.

"Sure does look like there was somethin' besides wood in there--somethin'
bulky, and there's some sacking.--Hi, Mendoza, come here and lend a
hand!"

In the meantime he and Polly began throwing the wood out of the wagon.

"My idea is that Gasca hid it in the wagon because he thought no one would
suspect anything there," said Polly, "and he could haul it away in a hurry
if they did."

"It's more likely he buried it and after he died the woman dug it up and
packed it in here meaning to go South with it and then got sick and died
before she had the chance."

"Well, I said you had imagination. That's a much better theory than mine,"
said Polly, generously. "But why didn't somebody take the wagon?"

"Well, it ain't much of a wagon. I reckon they took the horse and the pigs
and chickens and let the rest slide. The wood don't amount to much; just
sticks she's picked up."

Mendoza, quite of the opinion that the couple whom up to this time he had
suspected of nothing more alarming than an elopement, had suddenly gone
very mad, stolidly chucked wood out of the wagon lest a worse thing be
demanded of him.

"There!" The three gathered around the half-empty wagon in excitement,
even Mendoza manifesting a slight degree of zest when through the layer of
straw, half covered with sacking, was revealed a number of rough looking
blocks, in shape resembling large loaves of bread. Penhallow lifted one
with difficulty.

"That's what it is, girl," he cried, his eyes glistening. "It's gold
straight from the mine. Why, what's the matter?"

"It's so disappointing," murmured the girl; "it looks like old junk."

"Well, it's pretty good old junk. I only wish it was mine, don't you,
Mendoza? This stuff, Mendoza, all belongs to some rich guys who own a lot
of mines down yonder. Big, fat chaps who sit in easy chairs back of
mahogany tables and let other fellows earn their money for them; fine
business, eh?"

Mendoza grinned--a comprehending if not a lovely grin.

"_Si_," he grunted. "I seen them