"What did you say your name was?" asked the young surgeon kindly. "Jackson," said Dumphy, with a defiantly blank look. "Where from?" "Missouri." "How did you get here?" "Strayed from my party." "And they are----" "Gone on. Gimme suthin' to eat!" "Take him back to camp and hand him over to Sanchez. He'll know what to do," said the surgeon to one of the men. "Well, Blunt," he continued, addressing the leader, "you're saved--but your nine men in buckram have dwindled down to one, and not a very creditable specimen at that," he said, as his eyes followed the retreating Dumphy. "I wish it were all, doctor," said Blunt simply; "I would be willing to go back now, but something tells me we have only begun. This one makes everything else possible. What have you there?" One of the men was approaching, holding a slip of paper with ragged edges, as if torn from some position where it had been nailed. "A notiss--from a tree. Me no sabe," said the ex-vaquero. "Nor I," said Blunt, looking at it; "it seems to be in German. Call Glohr." A tall Swiss came forward. Blunt handed him the paper. The man examined it. "It is a direction to find property--important and valuable property--buried." "Where?" "Under a cairn of stones." The surgeon and Blunt exchanged glances. "Lead us there!" said Blunt. It was a muffled monotonous tramp of about an hour. At the end of that time they reached a spur of the mountain around which the cañon turned abruptly. Blunt uttered a cry. Before them was a ruin--a rude heap of stones originally symmetrical and elevated, but now thrown down and dismantled. The snow and earth were torn up around and beneath it. On the snow lay some scattered papers, a portfolio of drawings of birds and flowers: a glass case of insects broken and demolished, and the scattered feathers of a few stuffed birds. At a little distance lay what seemed to be a heap of ragged clothing. At the sight of it the nearest horseman uttered a shout and leaped to the ground. It was Mrs. Brackett, dead. CHAPTER VII. IN WHICH THE FOOTPRINTS BEGIN TO FADE. She had been dead about a week. The features and clothing were scarcely recognizable; the limbs were drawn up convulsively. The young surgeon bent over her attentively. "Starved to death?" said Blunt interrogatively. The surgeon did not reply, but rose and examined the scattered specimens. One of them he picked up and placed first to his nose and then to his lips. After a pause he replied quietly-- "No. Poisoned." The men fell back from the body. "Accidentally, I think," continued the surgeon coolly; "the poor creature has been driven by starvation to attack the specimens. They have been covered with a strong solution of arsenic to preserve them from the ravages of insects, and this starving woman has been the first to fall a victim to the collector's caution."