The loss of ten thousand dollars was not a negligible matter, even to Sandy Mackintavers, who was accustomed to gambling on a large scale. Like a good gamester, he swallowed the bitter pill and said nothing. However, the loss left a scar which, contrary to the custom of scars, grew more red and angry with each passing week.

The realization that he had been outwitted and outgamed by the despised Mehitabel Crump was bad enough; the actual monetary loss made itself more gradually felt. However, Mackintavers knew that he would recoup tenfold once his hands gripped Number Sixteen. So, by means of various reports from Eastern sources, he discovered that Coravel Tio, the curio dealer of Santa FÉ, was negotiating for the sale of the property, and held an interest in the mine. Over this, Mackintavers laughed long and loud—and perfected his plans for taking over Number Sixteen.

In the meantime, he gave his attention to the seven stone gods and his scientific reputation.

His ranch house was a roomy, comfortable place; one half was inhabited by Old Man Durfee, who ran the ranch, and the other half was inhabited by Sandy and his frequent guests. At the present moment he had three guests besides Abel Dorales. Two were withered, wrinkled old bucks from the Cochiti pueblo, and these were quartered in the bunk house a half mile distant, by the corrals. The third was the eminent archÆologist previously mentioned, who had arrived to witness the establishment of Sandy as a scientist.

“To-morrow is the big day, eh?” Sandy Mackintavers spread his square bulk to the blaze in the big library fireplace, and surveyed his scientific guest with complacent expectation. “Dorales is goin’ to bring them bucks up here. We’ll have the little gods all ready, then we’ll see what happens.”

He glanced at the wide mantel whereon sat seven worn stone images, grinning widely over the room.

“You’ve not coached them, of course?” demanded the wary scientist. “If they had an inkling of what you wanted, they’d say anything to please you.”

“Huh!” snorted Mackintavers with honest indignation. “I should say not! Surprise is the thing, professor. Aiblins, now, I’ll explain to ye the system we’ve invented to make these Cochiti bucks talk—but first, take a look at this. I’m coming fast, eh? Aiblins, in another year or two I’ll be having a world-wide reputation, eh? Just look at this, now.”

He handed the scientist a letter. Now, Mackintavers himself could not read that letter; but it had been translated for him, and he was inordinately proud of it.

The scientist glanced at the letter-head above, a large and flaunting letter-head of the SociÉtÉ AcadÉmique, and below, in very small letters, the remainder of the legend: d’ethnologie Amerique. In other words, not particularly good French, denoting the Academic Society of American Ethnology, of Paris.

The eminent scientist repressed the smile that rose to his lips. It was obvious that Sandy, keenly canny in most things, was highly susceptible to this sort of flattery.

“I’m sending for their gold medal,” went on the speaker. “Costs about fifteen bucks, but I guess it’ll be worth it when the papers write me up, eh? They sent along an engraved parchment to show I’m a member. Some day I’ll go to Paris and visit ’em.”

The eminent scientist, who knew all the ins and outs of that game, did not spoil poor Sandy’s dream by any intrusion of cold and hard facts. Instead, he reflected to himself upon the odd twists and quirks of character, which would bring such a man as Sandy Mackintavers into the toils of a vain ambition, and into the nets of smooth sharpers who knew well how to flatter the American ignoramus into parting with his dollars.

Cordial and warm was Sandy Mackintavers that evening, expanding under the genial thought of what was to happen on the morrow, and making himself a wondrous fine host. He told how Abel Dorales had secured an interpreter, had approached two withered, wrinkled old Cochiti bucks who loved round silver dollars, and had brought them here upon specious pretexts. He told how, on the following morning, those two withered, wrinkled Cochiti bucks were to be left for an hour in this same room, alone with the seven stone gods on the mantel and a whiskey bottle on the table; and he told how a dictagraph, already concealed and in readiness, would be waiting for them.

Being presumably alone, being mellowed by one or two stolen drinks, being in the amazing presence of those seven stone gods, the two withered, wrinkled old Cochiti bucks would most unquestionably talk to each other in their own language. Later, the dictagraph record could be translated.

It never occurred to Sandy that the entire Cochiti pueblo might have been aware that he was in possession of these seven stone gods almost from the very day he obtained them. Sandy had picked up some knowledge about the relics of dead redskins; but he had a good deal to learn about Indians in the flesh.

So the morning came—the morning that was to bring about the satisfaction of ambition. Abel Dorales left the breakfast table in order to bring the two withered, wrinkled old Cochiti bucks. Mackintavers drew the eminent scientist into the library for a last look at the preparations—ah!

“It might be an excellent idea,” said the professor, dryly, “to set your stone gods in place, Mr. Mackintavers.”

“Aiblins, yes!” And Mackintavers stared blankly at the mantel. “Where the devil have they gone? They were here last night!”

That the seven stone gods had sat, grinning, upon the mantel only the evening previous, was true; but they were not on the mantel now. They were not in the room. They were not in the ranch house at all!

Curious to incoherence, suspecting everyone around him, Sandy Mackintavers sought an explanation. He obtained none. The two wrinkled, withered old bucks had been in the bunk house all night. Every man about the place established a convincing alibi.

Every building upon the place was searched from ground to rafters, without avail. Noon came, and Mackintavers had relapsed into a dour, grim rage. At this juncture, the old Chinaman who served as cook related that, while emptying the slops the previous evening, he had seen a strange horseman down near the creek. He could give no description.

“Stolen!” howled Sandy, beside himself with fury. “Out and after him!”

Now ensued confusion great and dire. Every man on the ranch, except the cook and Abel Dorales and the eminent scientist, shared the general exodus. Dorales openly expressed profound disgust for gods, for Mackintavers, and for the whole accursed business; having assumed responsibility for the safe return of the two wrinkled, withered old Cochiti bucks, he loaded them into the ranch flivver and set out for Socorro and the main line of the railroad. Sandy and Old Man Durfee were gone with the big car.

The professor, left alone, secured a volume of scientific reports and settled himself in comfort on the wide, screened veranda. The noon meal had not been pleasant. The afternoon was hot and dusty. Presently the scientific gentleman slept.

Just when his slumbers had deepened into snoring somnolence, the archÆologist was aroused by a sonorous bass voice that boomed like a bell. Startled, he sat up. He first visualized a buckboard close at hand, within a dozen feet of the veranda—a strange thing, for he well knew that natives of the country would have driven their teams to the corrals. Upon the seat of the buckboard was a suitcase.

It was a small wicker suitcase, a battered little yellow suitcase with loose ends of wicker torn and protruding from its faded surface; it was a suitcase manifestly third or fourth-hand, cheap in the first place, and now absolutely contemptible. It looked more like a lunch basket than a suitcase.

Then the professor was aware of a tall man, a large, shaggy-bearded man, who stood at the screen door of the veranda and spoke in sonorous accents.

“Sir, it grieves me thus to break your slumber, but I am searching with such power as lies within my soul for one named Mackintavers. I charge you, if you be fair Scotia’s son and him whom I do seek, declare yourself!”

“Bless my soul!” exclaimed the scientist. “Do I gather that you are looking for Mr. Mackintavers?”

“Such indeed are my intent and purpose,” declaimed Thady Shea.

“He’s gone. Everyone’s gone.” The professor inspected this specimen of humanity with swiftly growing interest. “They’ll be back presently; things are a bit upset. Won’t you come in? Better take your team over to the corrals.”

The scientist rose and introduced himself. Thady Shea solemnly gave his abbreviated cognomen and stated that, since he had hired the team at Magdalena and expected to return almost at once, the horses could stay where they were. He then entered the screen veranda, shook hands, and with a sigh sat himself down.

Mackintavers gone! It upset all his calculations. However, he soon found himself engaged in sprightly discourse.

Lemonade and cigars made an incongruous accompaniment. This entire situation, in fact, was the most incongruous the professor had ever experienced. He could not make out whether Thady Shea were here as a guest or as an enemy, as a chance caller, or as a business acquaintance. Thady Shea kept a tight mouth on some things.

“You’d better take those horses into the shade,” reiterated the professor at length. “And that suitcase of yours—why, the sun will broil it!”

Thady Shea smiled slightly.

“I perceive dust upon the horizon,” he said, gesturing toward the road, “which doth to my mind betoken the speedy return of our host, and the conclusion of my business. As for the suitcase, sir, therein lie food for musing!”

“What’s in it then?” The professor chuckled. “A set of Shakespeare?”

“Nay, sir, of its contents I am ignorant.”

Thady Shea eyed the approaching dust cloud, which might give birth either to Mackintavers or to Abel Dorales. In his own fashion, he proceeded to tell his companion how he had acquired that suitcase, two hours previously, and while on his way here.

He had encountered a horse, saddled and bridled and still alive, lying in the road with a broken leg. Of the rider, there had been no sign. A little distance farther on Shea had come upon this battered little suitcase lying in the dust. Whether the suitcase appertained to the vanished horseman could not be told. There had been some sort of accident, yet there was no human being in evidence. All this upon the main highway.

“Did you notice the brand on the animal, or anything which might identify it?” queried the professor, who was well versed in the ways of the country.

Thady Shea had learned enough, also, to notice a few such things. The brand was a queer mark, a queer zig-zag which to him meant nothing. The animal’s saddle blanket had been an Indian rug, woven for such use. The bridle had also been woven. Upon the suitcase, however, there was no mark of ownership.

“H’m! Sounds like a Navaho brand,” commented the professor, sagely.

At this point, Thady Shea rose and abruptly closed the discussion. The approaching automobile had drawn up.

From the car alighted Sandy Mackintavers, who stood for a moment staring at the buckboard; Old Man Durfee went on with the car to the garage, in the rear of the ranch house. Thady Shea did not need the professor’s vouchsafed admonition to know who this square-hewn man was, this man with the square jaw and mouth and figure, this man who turned from the buckboard and came dourly up to the veranda.

“Who’s here?” Mackintavers stood in the screen doorway.

“You’re Mr. Mackintavers?” Theatricalisms fell away from Thady Shea. He fumbled in his pocket. He produced the check which he had previously filled out. He extended it. “This belongs to you, I think. There was some mistake in the matter. Your check was cashed through a misapprehension.”

Mackintavers swept Thady Shea with keen, puzzled eyes; then he glanced at the check.

His square mouth contracted slightly at the corners. Otherwise, not a muscle moved in his face. After an instant he folded the check and glanced up at the professor.

“No luck with the thief,” he said, curtly. “That is, unless some of the boys bring in news. There was an accident on the Magdalena trail this morning—a fool Navaho buck was hit by the flivver from Doniphan’s ranch. Knocked him and his cayuse to glory. I thought for a time he was our man, but telephoned into town from Doniphan’s and found otherwise. Took a look at the horse to make sure. Nothing doing.”

His eyes went back to Thady Shea. He held open the door and gestured.

“You’re Shea, eh? Come on into the office, will you? Excuse me, professor.”

Shea followed his enemy host into the house, and into a small room which served Mackintavers as office and study. Sandy dropped into a chair, motioned Shea to another, and set out a box of cigars.

This greeting left Thady Shea entirely at sea. Mackintavers did not seem to be infuriated; he seemed to understand perfectly all about the check. He seemed alert, precise, cold-blooded, as though this were some ordinary business deal.

“So you’re Shea!” he repeated. “Aiblins, now—ye look it. Friend o’ Mrs. Crump, eh?”

“I am.” Thady Shea began to feel sorry that he had come inside.

“How come you’re turning back that money? The old lady feelin’ her conscience?”

“I told you, sir, that there had been an error. When the mistake was brought to my attention, I posted straightway hither, seeking you; the money was not mine to store away; reparation was incumbent on me.”

“What the hell!” muttered Sandy, with a touch of wonder.

Mackintavers knew men. He could read men at a glance, but Thady Shea was slightly beyond his visual acuity. None the less, he came fairly close to the mark in that he adjudged Shea to be of a simple and wonderful honesty, a man of fundamental virtue. Sandy took for granted that Thady Shea was mentally unbalanced; a theory which would explain this amazing refund, and also the wild stories which were current about the man.

“I hear you own that claim Mrs. Crump is workin’, Shea.”

“No. It belongs to her.” Thady Shea rose to his feet. “We need not prolong this——”

“Oh, don’t be in a rush!” soothed Mackintavers, cordially. “Now, I’ll have your team attended to, and you’d better stay overnight with us, eh? We’ll have a talk, and we’ll get squared up on the trouble between you and Dorales——”

Thady Shea looked down at him. Under those eyes Mackintavers fell silent.

“Sir, you are an infernal villain,” said Thady Shea calmly. “I want none of your hospitality. There is no trouble whatever, save in your own greed and covetous rapacity. You are an arrant rogue, a caitiff vile; there can be naught between us. Sir, farewell!”

Thady Shea strode from the room and slammed the door after him.

Sandy Mackintavers sat motionless, completely astounded by this outburst. He looked down at the check in his hand, then looked out the window; he could see Thady Shea climbing into the buckboard and driving off.

“Aiblins, yes; the man’s mad!” he reflected. A slow chuckle came to his lips. “And to think I never so much as said thank’ee! If the check’s good, now—h’m! Better find out about it. A fool, that’s what the fellow is. A loose-brained fool.”

He sought the telephone and spoke with the Silver City bank. The check was good.

Later in the afternoon came the first word of the actual thief who had made off with the seven stone gods. One of the men brought in a report that he had found signs of a camp on the creek a mile distant. Mackintavers and Old Man Durfee went out to investigate. They were good at reading signs; they discovered that a man had spent the previous night in this spot, and that he had presumably been an Indian. The tracks of his unshod horse showed a cracked off hind hoof. A few tiny shreds of gray wool showed where his saddle blanket had been laid.

Over the supper table that evening Sandy Mackintavers recounted these results to the archÆologist. Abel Dorales had not yet returned from Socorro.

“The gods are gone, professor,” he stated, disconsolately. “Clean gone! Aye. D’ye see, the thief, that fellow camped by the creek, was the same Indian who got wiped out by Doniphan’s flivver this morning! The same, aye. That saddle blanket was gray, and that horse had the off hind foot cracked. Aye. The Navaho dog was the thief. And now the gods are clean gone! There was no sign of ’em about the horse, and the man himself had nothing. But he took ’em, right enough.”

The professor glanced up, roused from his abstraction.

“That’s queer!” he ejaculated. Excitement rapidly grew upon him. “Look here, Mackintavers! The man who was here this afternoon, the man Shea—did you notice that queer little grip on his buckboard? He told me he had picked up that grip near the crippled horse, and he did not know what was in it!”

Just then Abel Dorales returned, to find that Thady Shea had come and gone.

Thirty minutes later Mackintavers and Dorales were on their way to Magdalena in the big car; Mackintavers was after the seven stone gods, and Dorales was after Thady Shea.