ost mine man is watching us."

"I don't think anything about it," said Nestor. "I never imagine
issues, and I never form theories. One thing I know, and that is that
we shall find friends over in Mexico. You may even come upon some of
the Black Bears there."

"I hope so," was the cheerful reply.

"In which case," continued Nestor, "you might take the suggested ride
down the Rio Grande."

"Not with the mountains in sight, and a lost mine to find," exclaimed
Fremont.

"And a brutal assassin to bring to punishment," added Nestor.

"And the third motive for visiting Mexico to develop," smiled Fremont.
"I wish I knew about that third motive. I understand the first
two--one you told me and one I guessed."

"You shall know the other in time," said Nestor. "Just at present,
however, the secret is not mine. Important issues are at stake, and I
must keep my lips shut, even when talking with you, concerning our
mission."

"All right," said Fremont. "Don't worry about me. I'll get it out of
you in some way. See if I don't."

Shortly after this conversation closed Nestor went out into the city to
arrange for the trip to the mountains. As he left the little hotel he
imagined that he saw men bearing unmistakable stamp of plain-clothes
policemen hanging about, and it also seemed to him that he was followed
as he walked down the crowded street toward the river.

It was late when he returned to the room where he had left Fremont. His
suspicions had proven to be more than suspicions, for he had indeed
been tracked from the hotel, and had been obliged to do a great deal of
walking in order to leave his pursuers behind. When he entered the
hotel he saw that the plain-clothes men were no longer on duty at the
front.

He climbed the stairs to his room and opened the door with a little
quiver of the lips, for the place was dark and silent. When he turned
on the lights, however, he was easier in his mind, for there was the
sleeping figure he had hoped to find.

In a moment, however, his eyes fell upon a heap of clothing lying
across a chair near the head of the bed. Those were not the clothes
Fremont had worn. These were soiled and torn. Whose were they, then,
and how was it that they were there?

He shook the sleeper lightly and a dust-marked face was lifted from the
sheltering bed-clothes. But the face was not that of Fremont, but of
Jimmie McGraw. Nestor started back in wonder. How had the boy come
there, an