Dick Willoughby was in a way happy in his retreat. At first he had been inclined to regret the jail delivery—it might have been the manlier part to have faced the music and cleared his name before the whole world. But then he reflected on the uncertainties of a trial, the cases of innocent men having suffered because of damning circumstantial evidence piled up against them, the vindictiveness of Ben Thurston and the undoubted power of his money to press the criminal charge by every unscrupulous means. So Dick soon came round to the belief that he might be safer for the time being in the guardianship of the White Wolf than at the mercy of a fallible jury.

Then there was Merle Farnsworth to consider. Yes; to have brought her into a public court, to have allowed her to plead for him by telling the story of Marshall Thurston’s loathsome advances—that was a thing that could never have been tolerated. The leader of the jail-breaking gang had been right; Dick owed it to Merle to save her from such a cruel ordeal.

Finally Dick’s contentment over his change of quarters was completed when Pierre Luzon appeared with a superb equipment of drawing instruments and materials. There was no time to worry now over surmises as to the wisdom of this course or the other course. Work lay to his hand—work of the most absorbing and delightful kind; and with all the ambitious enthusiasm of his temperament he tackled it whole-heartedly there and then. Hour after hour, day after day, Pierre watched in contemplative silence the methodical advancement of the task to which the young architect had applied himself.

But there were frequent intervals for conversation, sometimes in French, sometimes in English, as the mood prompted. Occasionally Pierre drifted into semi-confidential reminiscences, and Willoughby soon came to know in close detail the story of Don Manuel’s life—the tragedy of his sister Rosetta’s death, the vow of vengeance against Ben Thurston, the early bandit days when the White Wolf counted every gringo in the land his natural enemy, the often hairbreadth escapes of the outlaw, his sublime courage and nerve in the direst emergencies.

“Don Manuel was one great man,” remarked Pierre at the close of one of these confidences—the phrase was a favorite one with the old Frenchman. “Many and many a time he could have shot his enemy from a distance and got away. But Don Manuel had vowed zat he would kill him hand to hand—zat ze villain must die with a last malediction in his ear, and knowing zat it was he, ze White Wolf, who in ze end had revenged his sister’s shame.”

“He felt, too, didn’t he, that his father had been wronged in being driven from San Antonio Rancho?”

“Sure—zat was another great wrong—zat was why Don Manuel was so bitter against all ze Americans. But he made zem pay for ze land many and many times over.” Then Pierre, as was now his custom in Dick’s presence when speaking at any length, lapsed into French as he continued: “But the White Wolf was a man of high honor. He never used any of the proceeds of his robberies for himself. True, he spent the money to pay his band, to pay the numerous scouts and spies whose services he secretly retained, to plan and accomplish further hold-ups, to defy and outwit the authorities. But on his own needs—never—not one dollar!”

Pierre went on to explain that after Ben Thurston had fled from California and kept away in hiding, Don Manuel had visited Spain, to claim the family estates in Valencia to which his father’s death had left him the sole heir. These he had sold for many millions of dollars, and most of that money he kept in banks in London and Paris. So he was a very rich man, and had no need to rob anyone except to gratify his vengeance. Even the hoarded gold of Joaquin Murietta he had never touched. It remained intact today in the treasure vault of the cave, boxes and sacks of gold and jewels.

“Won’t I be allowed to see this wonderful treasure?” asked Dick, half jesting.

“Perhaps, some day, if the White Wolf chooses to show you. But it is not for me to do that—I swore an oath of secrecy when the White Wolf trusted me—me and Felix Vasquez, who was also his confidant. But Vasquez was killed at Tulare Lake. So now only we two know the secret, and until the White Wolf himself dies my lips are sealed by the solemn oath I swore to the Virgin Mary.” The old man crossed himself devoutly.

“Then where does the White Wolf live now?”

“Ah, that is another secret. Again I would break my oath if I spoke one word.”

“And Guadalupe—does she know these things?” asked Dick in English.

“Guadalupe? Oh, no,” responded Pierre, politely adopting the change of language, “she is just one servant, our cook—one very excellent cook, as monsieur knows—and ze guardian of ze cave. For ze real white wolf guards Guadalupe—ze big animal is just like one tame dog to ze old squaw, but with his fierce jaws he would kill anyone who dared to approach her or come near ze hidden entrance to zis cavern. No man can ever find zat while ze white wolf is alive. In ze old days he killed several men when zey dared to follow Guadalupe.”

“Then the white wolf must be very old?”

“As old as Guadalupe—as old as the Tehachapi mountains,” exclaimed Pierre, again crossing himself and thereby revealing the superstitious dread in which he held the savage animal.

“But you can pass the white wolf, can’t you?’ asked Dick.

“Never—except when Guadalupe give permission. Then ze wolf lies down and I can come out of ze cave or enter. Ah! ze white wolf is one terrible beast. But he never shows his teeth to Don Manuel. Only Don Manuel can pass when Guadalupe is not there.”

“Then where is Guadalupe’s riffle of gold—where is the lake of oil about which you told Tom Baker?”

“Come, I will show you zese,” replied Pierre. As he rose he picked up the lantern he usually carried.

Dick jumped to his feet with alacrity and followed his guide.

They crossed the main cavern, then entered another side gallery. This had many windings and from it ran several diverging rock corridors. But Pierre led the way unfalteringly.

Fully half a mile must have been traversed when at last the Frenchman halted and swung his lantern aloft.

“Zere!” was all he said.

Dick followed the flash of the lantern, and there before him was a dark pool stretching away indefinitely into the blackness beyond. He bent down and scooped up a little of the fluid in his palm. It was a brown oil, as thin as water, and therefore capable of use without any refining process.

“Great Scott, this is wonderful!” exclaimed Dick in profound amazement.

“Very wonderful,” concurred Pierre. “In zis cavern are oil and water, also gold—Guadalupe’s gold. Ze gold is close to here. Come.”

Pierre turned and again led the way through dark and winding corridors. At a little distance Dick became conscious of the purling of a running stream. Pierre stopped once more, but this time held the lantern close to the ground.

“Here Guadalupe come to wash out ze nuggets of gold, and since I have been in prison she buy with zem, so Mr. Baker say to me, groceries at ze store. Don Manuel, when I tell him, he very angry—she never do zat again.”

“Poor old Buck Ashley!” laughed Dick. “He lost you, Pierre, and now he’ll be losing his best paying customer, too.”

While speaking, he knelt and dipped his hands into the stream, bringing up some gravel into the lantern rays. But Pierre shook his head.

“You no find ze gold. Guadalupe wash many hours to get, perhaps, just one nugget. But there is heaps and heaps, if ze miners came with spades and cradles.”

“Great guns, there must be the reef, too, from which the nuggets have come!” exclaimed Dick, rising erect and dropping the handful of pebbles.

“Now, we must go back,” said Pierre, “for zis evening you are to be allowed to come for a ride with me down ze mountains.”

“You don’t say?” Dick cried, surprised and delighted.

“Yes; Don manuel he send word today that he give permission. But you must wear ze bandage round your eyes, and you must promise to return when I give ze word.”

“Don’t for one moment think, old fellow, that I would leave my drawings. But where are we going tonight?”

“To La Siesta,” replied Pierre.

“Hurrah!” shouted Dick. “Hurry up, Pierre! I’m mighty glad you got me those ties and things from Los Angeles. You say you can give me a hair-cut?”

“Ze old-time bandit learned to trim ze hair of his friends as well as ze pocket-books of his enemies,” was the laughing answer.