PUBLIC excitement had been running high over the approaching trial of Dick Willoughby, but his delivery from jail by the masked night-riders came as the culminating climax. Mystery and romance were piling up. Despite the strength of the circumstantial evidence, the sudden fate that had overtaken the young heir to San Antonio rancho had been shrouded with uncertainty; no witness had seen the actual doing of the murderous deed. The sensational arrest of Dick Willoughby had been followed by his still more sensational disappearance; for he seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth—he had been spirited to some place of concealment to which there was not the slightest clue, while also the identity of his rescuers remained a profound enigma.

All sorts of speculations were rife, and it was small wonder that the name of the famous bandit, Don Manuel, came to be revived. This was just the sort of audacious work the White Wolf would have gloried in—breaking into a prison, defying the authorities, leaving behind him a trail of mystery and vague terror. But shrewd old-timers pointed out that Don Manuel had never in his whole career helped a gringo—that his hand had been against every American, and that in his earlier days at all events he had killed ruthlessly, out of sheer lust for vengeance against the race of newcomers who had despoiled him of his ancestral acres. What reason, therefore, could he have had to help Dick Willoughby to liberty? Even if it had been the outlaw’s hand that had pulled the trigger against the son of his hated enemy, Ben Thurston, little would he have cared if a score of gringos had come to their end, justly or unjustly, as an aftermath of the tragedy.

Old Ben Thurston had discussed this very question with himself. The slaying of his only son, the clever business deal that had called his own tricky and dishonest bluff and lost him his principality, the sight of his herds being driven away, the approaching eviction from his home—all these events crowding one upon the other had exasperated him beyond measure and completed the change of the already grouchy, disgruntled man into a veritable wild beast snapping and snarling at everyone. Yet his mind was completely obsessed by the idea that it was Dick Willoughby, and Dick Willoughby alone, who had shot his son, so there was no room in his small and obfuscated brain for any seriously renewed apprehension that his old enemy, the White Wolf, had come to life again.

Dick’s escape from jail almost gave Ben Thurston a fit of apoplexy. It was the sleuth, Leach Sharkey, who alone of those around him ventured to break the news. After his first paroxysm of wrath, Thurston paced the room like a caged animal. He had begun to make a confidant of this man, his constant attendant, the protector with the handy guns in his hip pockets on whom he had come to rely night and day, the one associate who phlegmatically endured his irritable moods and abusive language.

So, in Leach Sharkey’s presence, Thurston, as he walked to and fro, spoke his thoughts aloud.

“Damn all pretty faces, anyhow. First and last they have cost me a fine sum. And now it is a pretty face that has cost me my boy’s life. It’s hell, that’s what it is. But I will have my revenge. I’ll hang Dick Willoughby with my own hands if necessary—even if it is the last act of my life I’ll have his neck stretched for him.”

He was glaring down at the sleuth, and the pause seemed to call for some reply.

“Well, he’s given us the slip for the present,” Sharkey ventured. Then he caught the gathering fury in the other’s eyes, and hurriedly went on: “But there is no question in the world we’ll run the scoundrel down. I myself will shoot him like the dog he is the moment I lay my two eyes on him.”

“Well, don’t waste your breath telling me you are going to do it,” growled Thurston. “Hunt him down. Take all the money you need. Get all the men you can. Search every canyon. Guard every road out of the hill country. And don’t be misled by that damn fool talk about the White Wolf of which you’ve been telling me. That cursed outlaw is dead—dead as a herring. I ran the story of his death to earth—stood on his very grave in the potters’ field at Seattle. Dick Willoughby’s the outlaw now. Get him at any cost. Get him, or, by God, lose your own job, Leach Sharkey. Do you follow me?”

“Oh, I follow you,” replied the sleuth, a sardonic smile still further exposing the teeth that were the most prominent feature of his face and at all times gave him a hyena-like appearance. “I’ll get him, make no mistake, Mr. Thurston. Just draw me that check, and I’ll have twenty more men out on the range before morning.”

At the store, Dick Willoughby’s disappearance was for days the sole topic of conversation. One morning Tom Baker and Buck Ashley were gossiping together.

“What beats me,” remarked the storekeeper, “is that Chester Munson wears such a spry look. He was Dick’s closest chum, yet he don’t seem to be one bit anxious.”

“Oh, he’s got the word, make no mistake,” replied Tom. “Although the lieutenant is as close as wax, he knows Dick’s all right, for sure. And I’m told that up at La Siesta, where Dick has his girl, you know, they’re still a-playin’ the pianner and the fiddle all the time. Mark my words—there’s been some wireless telephone at work. Munson don’t worry, his lady friends don’t worry, so I begin to think we’re a couple of derned old fools to fret ourselves on Dick’s account.”

“It’s about Pierre Luzon I’m frettin’ most,” Buck Ashley rejoined. “To think that that damned Frenchman should have done us in the eye, got clean away and robbed us of our share of the buried treasure—that’s what worries me, Tom Baker. And you’ll allow now you made a mess of things by not havin’ the old convict shackled to the bedpost.”

“A mess of things!” cried the sheriff, rising anger in his voice and eyes. “You won’t keep your mouth shut till I teach you—”

But just then there was the clatter of hoofs outside, and Tom stopped in the middle of his sentence. A moment later Munson and Jack Rover entered in a state of visible excitement. Munson carried in his arms a rotund canvas sack tied at the neck. The package was not very big, but clearly of considerable weight.

“Great Caesar,” exclaimed the lieutenant, without pausing to give any greeting. “A most surprising thing has happened. When I awoke this morning I found this bag lying on my table. And what do you think it contains?” As he asked the question he dumped the sack on the counter with a heavy thud.

“You’ve got us guessin’,” drawled Tom.

“Ten thousand, five hundred dollars in gold!” announced Munson.

“Good Lord!” ejaculated the sheriff in great surprise.

Munson went on:

“Five thousand dollars are for the French warder at San Quentin who smuggled Pierre Luzon’s letter out of the prison, and the balance is for the syndicate.”

“What syndicate?” gasped Buck, for the moment quite bewildered.

“The Hidden Treasure Syndicate, of course,” exclaimed Jack Rover. “Pierre Luzon has sent each man back the hundred dollars he put up to get him out of the pen, and five thousand dollars extra to divide among us.”

Buck and Tom sprang simultaneously to their feet.

“Hooroosh!” shouted the sheriff. “I always knew there was no yellow streak in old Pierre Luzon.”

“And I always said I liked him, too,” observed Buck. “But come into the parlor, boys,” he went on, with a cautious look around. “Let’s count the money.”

“And divvy it up,” added Tom eagerly. “Gosh ‘lmighty, boys! I’ve never yet seen a thousand dollars in gold at one time outside a bank cashier’s window. And to think there’s that amount cornin’ to me right now!”

“One thousand, one hundred, pal, to be exact,” laughed Jack Rover, lifting the package and following the storekeeper into the sanctum beyond the counter.

The gold was in United States twenty-dollar pieces, bearing dates which showed they had been minted more than twenty years ago.

“Some of Joaquin Murietta’s loot,” remarked Jack Rover, when attention had been drawn to this detail.

“No,” observed Tom Baker, holding up the coin he had been examining, “Murietta wasn’t alive when this ‘ere gold piece came from the mint. This is some of Don Manuel’s stuff.”

“The White Wolf!” exclaimed Munson.

“Yes, the White Wolf,” continued the sheriff. “So if the White Wolf ain’t dead, as Pierre declared that night—” Tom gazed at the bedroom door as if the spectral figure might reappear—“he’s honorin’ the Frenchie’s sight draft, that’s sure.”

“I see,” said Munson. “He is paying the five thousand dollars old Pierre promised in his letter if he was helped to freedom and five thousand dollars besides.”

“Precisely,” Tom Baker replied. “But if the White Wolf is dead, as most folks say, then the Frenchie’s got the key to the treasure vault, all right.”

“So we’ve got to get him back here again, boys,” murmured Buck, rubbing his hands while his eyes feasted upon the heap of gold. “I don’t mind boardin’ Pierre Luzon for a spell, and he can have all the bourbon he wants.”

“Till he tells us where Guadalupe gets her nuggets,” grinned Jack. “But you’ve forgotten to show ‘em, Munson, the card that came with the coin.”

“Oh, yes,” rejoined Munson, drawing a small piece of pasteboard from his pocket. “It is brief enough. Luzon gives his countryman’s family address in Marseilles where the first five thousand dollars is to be mailed. Then he writes down our five names, Dick Willoughby’s first, and says the five of us are to share equally.” He passed the card to Tom Baker for inspection, and went on: “Jack and I are going to ride over to Bakersfield, get the French bank draft and put Dick’s money in the bank along with our own.”

“Where’s Dick?” asked Buck, with a quick uplift of his eyes into Munson’s face.

But the latter was not to be betrayed into divulging any information that might be in his possession.

“I have not the slightest idea,” he replied airily. “But I feel sure Dick’s all right. He is the sort of fellow well able to look after himself. Meanwhile, Jack and I will attend to his financial interests,” he added with a laugh, as he began to count the gold.

In silence the task proceeded, five thousand dollars first being set aside, and then the balance divided into five separate heaps. When all were satisfied as to the correctness of the distribution, Munson swept the gold back into the sack, except for the two little piles allotted to Ashley and Baker. Then he securely tied the package, ready for the ride to Bakersfield.

“Buck will lock mine in his safe, boys,” exclaimed Tom Baker. “Gosh me, but I’ll want to look at it two or three times a day.”

“Oh, I’m drivin’ over to the bank myself tomorrer,” declared Buck. “I’ve got a bit more to add to this pile.”

“A few handfuls of nuggets, I suppose,” laughed Rover.

“Well, I’ll allow Guadalupe always pays her grocery bills. But this ‘ere store ain’t goin’ to be a safe deposit vault, not on your demed life, with bandits around again. So you’d better arrange to come with me to town tomorrer, Tom.”

“You’ll need me to help you home, perhaps,” grinned the sheriff. “But, I say, Munson, you ain’t told us yet how this sack came to be delivered at your place.”

“There’s a proper mystery for you!” cried Munson. “As I said before, I found the bag this morning, lying on my dressing table. Sing Ling was the only one besides myself in the shack, and he never heard a sound all night.”

“You’re still in Dick’s old home?” asked Buck. “Yes, but I leave tomorrow—have notice to quit, for some surveyor chaps are coming in. I’m moving up to Mr. Robles’ place. He wants me to catalog the books in his library.”

“And Sing Ling?” queried Tom.

“He goes, too. You see, Mr. Robles needs a crackerjack cook, now I’ll be boarding with him,” Munson laughed, gaily. “You don’t happen to have a porterhouse steak about the place, Buck?”

“I can heat you up a can of pork and beans.”

“Nothing doing! Jack and I wouldn’t spoil our appetites with such truck as that. We’re going to set up a chicken dinner in Bakersfield.”

“Chicken and champagne,” chimed in Jack, as he swung the sack over his shoulder.

“You’re beginning to get big bugs these days,” called out the storekeeper as the young men left the room. “Guess, Tom,” he went on, turning to the sheriff, “we could do with a jolt of Kentucky.”

“Make it a bottle of bourbon,” gurgled Tom, “to remind us of our absent friend.”

“Dear old Pierre,” murmured Buck, as he fumbled in his pocket for the key of the safe, his eyes glued all the time on the two little heaps of gold.