“What do you want of him?” demanded the trader, surprised. “I should think you’d be well satisfied to let varmints like that alone.” “This is a little matter of business,” said the trapper. “I’m not hunting him from choice, but because I must.” The trader grunted. From his manner it was plain to the boys that he held Spotted Snake in no great esteem. “Well, if you must see him, I’ll do my best for you,” he said. “The Snake was seen in the town only a few nights ago; a couple of my men met him and heard him doing a lot of wild talking about making a fortune--about gold which came so thick that you could gather it up in buckets. The sun must have struck through his sombrero,” added the trader, drily. The trapper looked at the boys, and they returned the look with troubled eyes. “I reckon though,” went on the trader, “if he did have anything valuable, he’d put himself in the proper company to get rid of it. Remember that fellow they called ‘Moccasin’ Williams up in Taos? Well, he was one of them; and,” with a nod of the head, “I think that speaks for itself.” Kit and the two lads walked slowly down the narrow street. “Moccasin Williams, eh?” said the trapper, thoughtfully. “Yes, as Buck Morgan says, he speaks for himself. There’s not a bigger rascal in the southwest. Once was a miner in old Mexico, I believe; and later lived among the Blackfeet and the Comanches. I’ve even heard it said that he was a renegade and took part with the redskins in attacking many a wagon train.” That the man had been a miner interested both Dave and Joe vitally. A chill struck their hearts as they thought of the brave old veteran of MacDonough’s victory who waited away there in the Mission of San Gabriel for news of his boys and the map of the treasure country. “Maybe we’d better go to see the man Lopez mentioned to you,” said Joe. “Goat Beard?” said Kit. “Yes, I’d been thinking of that. It won’t do any harm to go talk to him. The ‘breed’ must have heard that our company’s got back, and so knows we’re around somewhere.” They passed quickly through the town; at the far side was a squalid section mostly occupied by Indians and the riff-raff of a frontier settlement. A wretched sun-baked adobe house with very low doorways and a generally forlorn aspect bore some straggling lettering across the front. “This is old Diaz’s storehouse,” said Kit. Inside, the place was deep with shadows. Cured pelts and buffalo hides were heaped in corners; traps hung from the ceiling; rifles, clothing, knives, hardware, pottery and examples of feather work were displayed for sale. A fat old woman, a Mexican half-breed, came waddling forward. “A blessing on the brave Americanos,” wheezed she in Spanish. “You are our first patrons of the day. Good luck be with you; and what will you have?” “Where is Diaz?” asked the trapper. The old woman threw up her fat hands and wagged her fat head.