we
needs must be led by, we had beaten thoroughly the region where once the
mission of Santa Marta was; and not a trace of the gravings on the rocks
had we found. To go over this region again, searching still more
minutely, was too great an undertaking even to be thought of; and yet
the only alternative to this painful course seemed to be that we should
abandon our search altogether; in short, we were completely at sea.

"What _I_ think," said Young, "is that that old dead monk, an' that old
dead Cacique, have set up a job on us. They're both of 'em lyin' like
fiddlers; that's what's th' matter with _them_. There ain't any hidden
city, or hidden treasure, or hidden d----n anything; it's all a fraud
from beginnin' t' end. I vote t' pull up stakes an' go home."

A cool refreshing wind was beginning to sweep down to us from the
mountains; but it was blowing only in puffs as yet, for the night would
not be upon us for several hours. Borne faintly and fitfully upon this
uncertain wind came to us the strains of "Rory O'More"; with which
melody, as we inferred, Dennis was beguiling his solitude while he
explored the route that we were to take the next day. Pablo, sitting
comfortably on the grass, his back propped against the back of El Sabio,
also caught the sound; and straightway began to play an accompaniment on
his mouth-organ to Dennis's distant singing. The strains gradually grew
louder, showing that Dennis was returning; but when they stopped
suddenly we thought that he had only tired of the sound of his own
voice, or, perhaps, did not think anything about the matter at all.

But when a sound of hurried, irregular steps came down the wind to us,
we all were on our feet in a moment and had our arms ready, for it was
evident that Dennis was running from something; and the danger was
likely to be a serious one, for running was not at all in Dennis's line.
We wondered why he did not call out; but the explanation of his silence
was plain enough, ten seconds later, as he came around the shoulder of
the hill, staggered in among us, and fell on the grass at our feet--with
the blood streaming from his mouth and nostrils, and with an arrow clear
through his breast.

"Indians!" he gasped, with an effort that brought a torrent of blood
spurting from his mouth; and he added, faintly, "But I've bate 'em, th'
divvils, in their hopes of a soorprise!"

These triumphant words were the last that Dennis Kearney uttered on
earth. As he