In a few minutes more they stood within the rude brush shanty. Eagerly they gazed around, as though expecting to discover great heaps of the precious metal. Then Upshur laughed--harshly and discordantly. "Bah! what fools! Of course they've hid it. But what one hides, another can find. They've changed the gold to another place--for there's where it has been." All could see as much, but the gold was not there. Still, it must be hidden near at hand. CHAPTER VIII. THE WILD-MAN AGAIN. Meanwhile, where was Jack Tyrrel? We left him at the moment when he turned round the point of rocks, following on the strange trail. A few rods beyond this, and he suddenly paused as a peculiar cry met his ear. Hastily glancing up, a strange light met his gaze. A flash of recognition lit up his face. He had seen that form once before. It was, indeed, none other than the occupant of the hill-cave, whom he had beheld fed like a child by the beautiful maiden; the one whom he had, a few hours later, seen shot at by Nate Upshur. The being called by Paul Chicot, the "Mountain Devil." He stood at the base of a large bowlder, one hand outstretched, clutching his long bow already spoken of. His attitude, his face, his eyes, all told that he was angered. "Back! rash fool!" he uttered in a deep, stern tone. "I warned you once--this is sacred ground. Back, I say, or you die!" "Don't be so headstrong, old man," coolly returned Jack, seating himself upon a bowlder. "You have nothing to fear from us. When we finish our work, we intend leaving--and allow me to add that you nor any one else can make us stir one step before we get ready." The wild-man--or madman, whichever he was, and both titles well suited him--uttered another hoarse, inarticulate cry, and, with lightning-like quickness, fitted an arrow to the string. Jack sprung to his feet, but was too late to avoid the shaft. It struck him fairly, pinioning his right arm to his side, the flinty head plunging deep into the muscles of his side and back. Stung with pain, and scarcely realizing the extent of his injuries, Jack drew a revolver with his left hand, and fired twice, in succession, at the same time uttering a half-unconscious cry for help. Then the madman was upon him. With a giant's strength he dashed the young man backward to the ground, and wresting the pistol from his grasp, he dealt Tyrrel a stunning blow upon the head with its brass-bound butt. With a low moan, Jack lost all consciousness. The events of the next few hours were a blank to him. Probably urged on by some strange whim, the madman flung the senseless body across his shoulder and then darted back to the cave entrance, through which he plunged. As though gifted with cat-like eyes, he ran swiftly on through the winding passages, never once seemingly at fault, the only trace left being the drops of blood that fell from Tyrrel's wounds.