"I'm afraid so. I'll have to get over that, I suppose." "Not if you marry Marc Scott," said Marc's loyal friend, quite forgetting his sinister intentions. "There's nothing tame about Marc. I'd hate to be the woman who tried to fool him. She would have some job on her hands." "Well, she'd have to be cleverer than I am to do it," sighed Polly, sadly. "Well, I don't know. Say, what's your idea of finding this junk, anyhow? Where d'you reckon it'd be? Above ground?" Polly looked a bit taken back. "I never thought of that," she admitted. "It's the first time I ever hunted treasure. Where do you think it will be?" "Well, if you want the truth, I ain't looking for it to be there at all. My idea is that Gasca got rid of it and that's why they killed him. And yet----" "Yes?" "Kind of funny the woman hung around after he died. The natural thing would have been for her to have gone back to her people, wouldn't it?" "Of course it would. I know it's there." "If you know it's there it's a pity I didn't bring along a couple of pickaxes," said Sam, with a grin. "All the treasures I ever heard about called for pickaxes, skeletons and an old family chart." "Oh, have it your own way!" said the aggravated Polly. "But who, I'd like to know, would have come up to this lonely place to look for gold, and how could an ignorant old Mexican like Gasca dispose of it without getting into trouble?" "Well, mebbe so. Anyhow, here's your cabin." The cabin was situated up the canyon on the right hand side of the road. It was a little wooden shack, sagging and discolored, its windows broken and its whole appearance denoting that utter desolation to which only a deserted homestead can attain; not even a human wreck can equal this silent abandonment. It had been a fairly decent place once; there were outbuildings which evidenced past association with pigs and chickens, while back of the house stood a wooden cart such as country people use for hauling wood or hay. In the dusk, that saddest of sad times, between sunset and moonrise, Wildcat Canyon presented an awesome appearance. The hills were outlined sharply and darkly against the sky; the little stream that dribbled past the cabin was so quiet that it seemed the ghost of water; there was no movement--no sound--no suggestion of life. Polly drew a long breath. "What a dreadful place to live!" she murmured, her spirits dashed for a moment. A woman had lived here--a woman stolen from her people. Had lived--and, stricken and alone, had died here. Polly thought of her own spoiled and sheltered life and her eyes filled. In the meantime, Sam Penhallow took in the view with intense disfavor. "I never was partial to Wildcat Canyon," he remarked, pessimistically. "I caught a cattle thief up here once. He hid behind that rock and gave us a real nasty time before we got him. Well, since we're here we may as well get busy. Can't you get us a little nearer, Mendoza? This is pretty far to tote gold bars."