Dick was nothing loth to fall to. He had been too excited to do more than taste the midday meal that Pierre Luzon had prepared for him in the cavern. It had been a long hard day, and now he was hungry as a wolf. In ordinary circumstances he had no objection to fried onions, but, with delicate regard for possible contingencies, he left to the others a monopoly over this item in the bill-of-fare. There were so many things to talk about that it was a difficult matter to know where to begin. But at the close of the meal Jack Rover solved the question by sweeping the supper things from the table, and emptying thereon the contents of one of the bags of gold. “Good old Guadalupe!” exclaimed the delighted cowboy, as he patted the nuggets with a loving hand. “I always told you that the ancient squaw had a real gold mine. I guess we’ll be able to stake out our claims tomorrow, eh, Dick, my boy?” “I’m afraid not,” smiled Willoughby. “The fact is that, although I helped to wash out that gold, I have not the faintest idea where the riffle is up among the hills.” Jack’s face fell. There was a moment of disappointed silence, and just then there came the sound of a faint tapping at the outer door. “What’s that?” asked Munson. The faces of all three showed that they had heard simultaneously. Dick rose, crossed over, and threw the door wide open. “My God, who’s this?” he asked, as he stooped over the figure lying prone across the steps. “Pierre, Pierre!” he added, as he turned over the face. “It’s Pierre Luzon, boys, and desperately wounded!” The others were pressed together in the doorway. “Looks as if he had crawled here on his hands and knees,” remarked Munson. “There’s his horse out among the chaparral,” exclaimed Jack, pointing to the shadowy form of the animal from which the wounded man had obviously tumbled. “Stand clear,” cried Dick, gathering up Pierre in his arms. “He has fainted, but is still alive.” And Dick, carrying the senseless form, passed into the bedroom beyond the living room, and there laid poor old Pierre on the very cot which he had occupied once before—on the eventful night when Tom Baker had brought the paroled convict from San Quentin. A few drops of whisky brought the wounded man back to consciousness. Dick leaned over him and caught the faintly whispered words. Piérre was speaking in the French of his childhood days. “He is dead—he is dead! At last Rosetta is avenged!” Dick motioned his companions to silence. He bent down close to the dying bandit. “Who is dead, Pierre? Ben Thurston?” “Yes, yes. Ben Thurston. Glory be to God! Don Manuel is avenged!” “And how did you come to be shot, Pierre? Where is Don Manuel?” “Dead—dead, too!” The wounded man this time cried out the words and struggled to sit up. His eyes opened wide, and fastened themselves on Dick. His voice again dropped to a whisper; he was speaking lucidly now. “But perhaps he lives. Who knows? Go and save him, Dick—Don Manuel—go, go.”