“Wa’al, don’t stop, Tom,” said Rover. “Go on and tell us what you’re thinking about. Get it off your chest, old man.” “It’s just this way. By God, you fellers are not entitled to as much of this ‘ere twelve or fifteen million dollars as I am, for I’m the feller that went to the governor and got his parole and brought Pierre back here to Tejon. Do you get me?” Buck Ashley had straightened up and looked at Tom Baker with an ugly scowl on his face. “It was me,” he said, “got that letter from Pierre Luzon and we all throwed in, share and share alike, all five of us. And we’ll cut what we find, too, whether it’s one million or fifteen million, into five equal parts, or there’ll be blood flowin good and plenty.” Baker staggered to his feet, steadied himself for a moment and began to roll up his sleeves. “There be some things,” he ejaculated, “that you jest can’t let wait and settle up when the deal is all closed. I know what my rights are and you fellers can’t bluff me, not by a derned sight.” “Hold on, hold on, gentlemen,” interposed Munson. “Let’s not commence quarreling about something we are not even sure we shall ever see. Of course we hope to be escorted into the cavern by old Pierre Luzon, and we likewise hope that he’ll find a hidden treasure. And by the way, Buck, this reminds me—the cut has to be into six equal parts, not five, for we owe Luzon the squarest of square deals.” “Oh, I’m not agin’ that,” muttered Buck. “I just didn’t remember him.” “Well,” resumed Munson, “why quarrel about something that is as yet nothing but a myth? It occurs to me that we should rather, individually and collectively, be exceedingly thankful that Pierre Luzon is alive, and that the White Wolf is dead, and that the one man who holds the secret has promised to show us this treasure.” “I’ve never believed one cussed word about the White Wolf being dead,” growled Buck Ashley. “Well, it sure was in the newspapers,” said Tom Baker, turning down his sleeves and resuming his seat. “Yes, it sure was in the newspapers,” replied Buck, “and they jest seemed to settle the fact, leastways to their own satisfaction. But I’ve been a-thinkin’ about Dick Willoughby. I don’t believe he ever killed Marshall Thurston, I don’t.” “Whoever did kill him,” put in Jack Rover, “did it good and plenty. Put the shot right square through his heart.” “Well,” said Tom Baker, reaching for more whisky, “I ain’t got much to say, but what I says I stands to on this ‘ere subject, and that is—” Almost with one accord all turned at the creaking of the bedroom door, and there was Pierre Luzon, looking as if he had seen a ghost. His short prison-cropped hair seemed to be standing on end like bristles, and his eyes stared wildly at the four men. At last he cried out in a shrill voice that was almost a scream: “Ze son of Ben Thurston killed! Ah, ha!” he laughed, hysterically. “Shot through ze heart!—vengeance at last begins! Ze White Wolf is not dead! He is one live man!” 0205