“Ach!” he said. “Dhis iss der vorsdt effer.” The baron did not show himself for a while; but sat nursing his rifle, occupying a hollow into which he wedged his body, and where he was resolved to fight to the death if the outlaws followed him. He knew they had the advantage, being familiar with the country, and being two to one. When he concluded that they were not coming after him, he got out of his hole, and tried to discover what they were doing. Then he found that they were gone. They had taken the burros and treasure, and had vanished. The place was a cut, with debouching gashes making from it in various directions, all rocky and hard as flint; so that, being unfamiliar with the location, the baron could do nothing. Abundant proof that they had been there was given by the grewsome sight of the dead Austin, and by the wounded man they had considered dying when they left him. Brown had been shot through the right side, but he was still conscious. To keep them from finishing him, he had feigned death. When the baron gave him some stimulant from his pocket flask, the prospector regained enough animation to be able to talk. “Tough luck, pard!” he said. “They got Austin! “Unt der dreasure!” “Yes. I didn’t see but two of ’em. If they hadn’t surprised us, we might ’a’ done something. But thar wasn’t much show, when they riz up shootin’ as they riz. If you think they’re gone, see if that bullet is still in my side, will ye?” The baron made the examination, his rifle on the ground where he could pick it up instantly. “Der pullet vendt t’rough,” he said, when he had looked the man over. “You needt der hosbidal pooty kvick, I dell you.” “I reckon I’ll never git thar, with the burros gone.” The baron gave the man more stimulant; then plugged the wound and bandaged it as well as he could, tearing the man’s shirt into strips for the purpose. Having done that, he stood back and looked the man over. “I dhinks maype I gan carry you,” he said. “You aind’t so heavy as me.” “I don’t reckon you could do it, pard,” Brown answered. “Vale, ve dry idt, eenyhow. Uff der voundt tond’t pleed too much ve gan make idt. How many miles iss idt?” “All of three, I reckon; and rough goin’.” In spite of his unpromising physical appearance, the baron was strong; and he had the stuff of which heroes are made. He accomplished the three miles over the rough trails with Brown on his shoulders, and got him into the local hospital in time to save his life. The knowledge that the prospectors had been in charge of the treasure; that Austin was dead, Brown wounded, and the treasure gone, furnished news of a sufficiently exciting kind to fill all the public places of Blossom Range with crowds. “A Dutchman’s luck!” was the universal verdict, when reference to the baron’s escape was made. “You can’t kill a Dutchman.”