"Lucy, come here; these are my friends. And, boys, if you are glad to see me, thank her. She saved my life." This introduction put all upon the best of terms, and for a time that was a joyous group. But then Lucy's thoughts reverted to her father. Where was he? Why had he not returned? Never before had he remained so long absent. Jack, with eyes wonderfully sharpened by the last few hours, read aright her thoughts, and closely questioned his comrades, who were now eating the food set before them by Lucy, in immense haste, as to whether they had seen the madman--or, as he said, Mr. Bradford. Warned by their suspicions, they said little of what had occurred, but volunteered to go in quest of him. "Thank you, boys. I'd go, but this confounded hurt won't let me. Take a look at the camp, while out. He may be there." Their hunger appeased, the two men descended the cliff, and set off at a rapid rate toward their camp. After an hour's hard walking they reached the crest of the hill from which they had first gazed down upon the valley that contained the bed of gold nuggets. Both paused, with a simultaneous cry. Human forms met their gaze. Their camp was occupied! Over a mile distant, they could not recognize sex or color. Of course, none but _men_ were there, but were they white or red--enemies or friends? Scarcely the latter, though. The two friends exchanged glances. A hard, determined expression rested upon each face, and their eyes told their resolve. A fortune, hard-earned, lay there, belonging to them. Should they abandon it now, after all that they had endured? No! Neither spoke a word, but looked to their pistols, renewed each cap, after seeing that the nipples were well primed. A miss-fire might be fatal, now. Then they glided forward, not seeking to hide their movements. That, after the valley was reached, would be impossible. Nearly a mile of level sand, without a rock or shrub, must be passed over. And yet they reached the water-course unmolested, unchallenged, unless the one feeble shout that came to their ears was such. They stood amazed. A terrible spectacle lay before their eyes. Four men lay stretched upon the ground, only one of whom gave signs of life. He had dragged himself to the brush camp, and was now lying in its shelter. The others were dead. Two of them lay upon their faces, the flint-head of an arrow protruding from each back. The other, close by, still clutched a bow; in the other hand was an arrow, that could not be fitted to the string before death overtook him. "It is the madman--Bradford!" muttered Duplin. "And that man is Paul Chicot!" added Wythe. "Help, friends--for the love of God! help!" gasped the wounded man--the sole survivor of this tragedy.