"Is the treasure near this vicinity, Mr. Marquand?" asked Tad.
"About two days' journey. I expect to find it at or near the ruins of an old Pueblo house. You know they built their homes one on top of another. Some of their adobe houses are six and seven stories high. Even if we locate the place, we may experience great difficulty in finding that of which we are in search. How would you boys like to join me? It will be an interesting experience for you?"
"Help—help you find the buried treasure?" questioned Chunky, his face red with suppressed excitement.
"Yes."
"Great!" chorused the lads.
"I'll talk with Professor Zepplin. Come, we will go over to the camp now."
When Mr. Marquand and the Professor had finished their conference, Tad and Chunky leaned forward eagerly to learn the result.
"Yes," nodded Mr. Marquand; "you're all going to help me find the ancient Pueblo treasure."
"I'm done with you, Bob Lasar! And you, too, Comstock!" thundered Mr. Marquand, as the rascals stood at the door of his room some two hours later.
Mr. Marquand had been waiting for them, and with him was Tad Butler, whom he had urged to accompany him back to the hotel that he might be a witness to what took place. Perhaps, too, Mr. Marquand reasoned that his former associates might not take the same attitude toward him in the presence of the boy that they might otherwise take.
The two men had halted in the doorway as Mr. Marquand hurled his decision at them.
Lasar shoved his companion into the room and closed the door.
"Sit down, both of you! So you thought to hoodwink me—to get the secret of the treasure and then put me out of the way, eh? That was your game, was it? Well, it's all off now. I'll have nothing further to do with you."
"Why—why, Mr. Marquand, it's all a mistake!" began one of the pair.
"Perhaps you'll deny having plotted against me on a train on your way to Bluewater."
"I deny ever having tried to put up a game on—"
"Master Tad, did you ever see these men before?"
They turned on the lad quickly. Neither man had previously observed him.
"Yes, sir."
"Where?"
"On the train, as you mentioned just now."
"And they were plotting my life?"
"So it seemed to me, sir."
"What have you to say to that?" demanded Mr. Marquand.
"That the boy lies!"
Tad's face flushed angrily.
"That'll do," said Marquand, more quietly.
"Then you believe him—you do not believe me?"
"I believe him. I know he has told me the truth. Now, it isn't necessary to explain to you. You deserve no explanation and you'll get none further than what you already have."
"But—"
"No 'buts' about it. I said I was done with you. Now, I want you to get out of my sight! You're a couple of rogues—so crooked that you can't walk straight."
Bob Lasar's face had grown livid with rage. His anger was rapidly getting beyond all bounds. Tad observed it and saw the storm coming. It arrived a moment later when Lasar whipped out a revolver.
Before Mr. Marquand could make a move to draw his own weapon Bob had aimed his weapon and pulled the trigger.
Tad, instantly divining the purpose of the man when he saw his hand fly to the pistol holster under his coat, sprang forward.
There was a deafening report. A bullet buried itself in the ceiling of the room.
Tad had struck up the desperado's arm just in the nick of time, thus preventing a terrible crime. But the end was not yet. There were five more bullets in the cylinder of the weapon, as the lad knew full well.
He grabbed Lasar's arm, hanging on desperately, at the same time trying to get a wrestling hold.
The weapon went off again, this time sending a bullet into the floor.
"Look out for the other fellow!" shouted Tad.
Mr. Marquand already had done so. Comstock had just made an attempt to draw his own weapon when Marquand threw himself upon the man. The two went crashing to the floor, while Tad and Lasar were battling all over the room, the latter's weapon barking viciously every little while.
Lasar was much more powerful than his slender antagonist, but Tad being very quick on his feet managed to keep out of the way of the revolver and at the same time to avoid being thrown.
Suddenly, the boy gave the gun-hand of his opponent a quick twist.
Lasar uttered a sharp exclamation of pain. The revolver clattered to the floor.
Quick as a flash, Tad threw a leg behind the knee of his antagonist, gave it a quick jerk, with the result that Lasar went to the floor with great violence.
By this time, occupants of the hotel were running down the hall, while others were hammering at the door. Lasar had turned the key upon entering the room.
Those within did not have time to listen to the demands of those in the hall, who were demanding admission.
Mr. Marquand, as soon as he got his opponent down, quickly disarmed him.
"Get up!" he commanded. "I don't want to kill you. I ought to do so, but I won't."
He sprang from Comstock, and jerking Tad from Lasar, whom the lad was making heroic efforts to hold down, pulled the fallen rascal to his feet.
"Get out, both of you!" he commanded, covering both his visitors with his weapon.
Lasar, in struggling to his feet, reached for his revolver.
"Drop it or I'll fill you full of lead!"
At that instant, the door burst open and half a dozen men sprang into the room.
Lasar, seeing that he was caught, leaped through the open window. He was followed closely by Comstock. He, too, made a clean leap, landing on the soft ground below.
"What's the meaning of this shooting?" shouted the proprietor, his face flushed with anger.
"Two men tried to murder me," replied Marquand coolly.
"It looks as though you were doing your share of it," snapped the proprietor, noting his guest's belligerent attitude and drawn weapon.
Just then three shots in quick succession were fired from the outside. Two of the bullets narrowly missed some of the men, who had forced their way into the room.
As the third shot was fired, Tad threw one hand to his head; then drew it away grinning.
"Those rascals have evidently gotten a new supply of fire arms," he said.
A bullet had gone through his hair and his scalp burned where the lead had brushed it.
All of the newcomers drew their revolvers and sprang to the window.
"Don't shoot!" cried the Pony Rider Boy; "You'll hit the wrong one. There are a hundred people down there."
"He's right!" shouted Mr. Marquand, pushing his way between the men and the window, at the imminent risk of getting a bullet in his back from either Lasar or Comstock. "Let 'em go. They'll be running for home about this time. They are a couple of scoundrels, sir."
"But the damage. Look at my fine room."
"I'll pay for the damage, and I'll quit your hotel now. I've had enough of the place," retorted Mr. Marquand, pulling a roll of bills from his pocket. "How much is it?"
"Well, you see—"
"How much is it?"
"Well, I guess twenty-five would be about right. You see—"
"Here's your twenty-five. Clear out!"
With many apologies the proprietor, accompanied by the others, backed from the room.
"We came pretty near having a fight, didn't we?" Marquand smiled, looking at Tad for the first time since the disturbance began.
"Almost."
"He would have got me if you hadn't knocked up his gun-hand. That's another one I owe you. Well, maybe we'll have a pay day soon."
"You had better go back to camp with me, and bunk in with us to-night," suggested the lad, "We shall want to make an early start in the morning, anyway. I think it will be safer there, too. That pair won't dare come fooling around our camp, knowing they can't trifle with us," added the lad, with a note of pride in his tone.
"I'll do it. Not that I'm afraid of anything that walks on two legs, but the sooner we hitch up the better it'll be. Got room enough?"
"Plenty. Where's your pony?"
"Up near your camp. Come on."
The man and the boy walked from the hotel, the former looking neither to the right nor to the left, Tad observing their surroundings half suspiciously. He was sure they had not yet heard the last of Bob Lasar and Joe Comstock. In this he was right.
Marquand and the boy had gone no more than ten rods from the hotel, when the report of a revolver was heard, and a bullet fired from the corner of an adobe building passed within an inch of Mr. Marquand's head.
With wonderful quickness the latter drew and sent three shots at the flash.
Whether he had hit any thing or not he did not know.
"Run! I don't want you to get hit," cried the boy's new friend, grasping Tad by the hand and starting off at a brisk pace.
"Bullets don't scare me, so long as they don't hit me," laughed young Butler.
"The moon will be here in a moment."
"What was it the old Pueblo chief said, Mr. Marquand?"
"'When the full of the moon has come and shoots its first arrow over the crests of the Guadalupes, it points the way to the treasure of my ancient people,'" quoted Mr. Marquand.
"I presume that would be taken to mean that, at a certain phase of the moon, one of its beams points to where the treasure is hidden," explained Professor Zepplin. "But what leads you to believe this is the Pueblo village of your particular chief's ancestors?"
"Yes; I don't see why it might not be any of the ruined adobe houses in this valley?" said Ned Rector.
They had journeyed rapidly over mountain and plain to the valley of the Guadalupes, where Mr. Marquand had informed them that he expected to find the treasure. In the three days consumed on the journey, the travelers had seen nothing of either Lasar or Comstock. Evidently the pair had decided to leave the country while they still had the chance, fearing that perhaps Mr. Marquand might invoke the aid of the law to rid himself of them if they remained.
The Pony Rider Boys and their outfit had arrived that afternoon, and during the remaining hours of daylight they had been excitedly exploring the ancient dwellings, most of which were in a dilapidated condition. There was one, however, two stories in height, that was in an excellent state of preservation. In fact it appeared as if it had only recently been vacated. After an examination of all the ruins Mr. Marquand had discovered what led him to believe that this was the structure which the old Pueblo chief referred to in his description of the resting place of the treasure. The chief had said he had never been near the spot. He was the only member of his tribe to whom the secret had been handed down, and he in turn had transmitted it to the white man who now stood within the shadow of the ancient dwelling place.
"I have my reasons for believing this is the place," answered Mr. Marquand, in response to the Professor's question. "If I am wrong, we shall have to wait until the moon rises to-morrow night. Come inside now, and we will close the door."
All hands crowded into the cool chamber, closing the heavy wooden door that barred the entrance.
"Don't see how moonlight can get through solid walls," muttered Stacy. "Ought to leave the door open."
No one answered him. In the darkened chamber, with its peculiar, musty odors, the boys did not feel in the mood for hilarity or even for speech. There was something about their situation that seemed to impress them profoundly.
"Stand over against the wall on the side, so as not to obstruct any light that might possibly get in here," directed Mr. Marquand.
The others moved silently to the side of the room indicated by him. They had stood thus for fully five minutes when an exclamation from Stacy broke the stillness harshly.
"Look! Look!" cried the fat boy.
A slender shaft of light had suddenly pierced the blackness, coming they knew not whence. It was there.
"Must be a pin hole through the wall up near the ceiling," suggested Kris Kringle.
The silver thread shot across the chamber, ending abruptly on the adobe floor some three feet from the back wall.
"That's the spot!" shouted Mr. Marquand triumphantly.
He threw himself on the floor, and with his knife scratched a cross on the spot where the moonbeam rested. Scarcely had he done so when the delicate shaft of light disappeared as suddenly as it had come.
"It's gone," breathed the boys.
"But it has pointed the way."
"And we have followed the silver trail to its end," added Ned Rector poetically.
"Bring the tools!" cried Mr. Marquand.
While they were doing so, he struck a match and lighted the lantern that they had brought with them from their camp in the foothills. His first care was to bar the door with the heavy wooden timber that he had cut and which he now slipped into its fastenings.
A close examination of the floor revealed no marks save those put there by the treasure-hunter's knife.
"This house seems to be built on the solid ground. I do not think you will find anything under it," protested the Professor.
"There are houses under every one of these buildings," answered Mr. Marquand. He held a short, keen edged bar in place, while Kris Kringle swung the maul. Gradually they cut a ring about two feet in diameter about the cross. The material of which the floor had been made had been tempered with the years and was almost as hard as flint.
The steady thud of the heavy maul, accompanied by the click, click of the cutting bar, the dim light, the silent, expectant faces, formed a weird picture in this silent desert place.
After a full half hour of this the two men paused, and stood back, drawing sleeves across their foreheads to wipe away the perspiration.
Stacy Brown walked pompously over to the circle.
"Maybe I can fall through it. If I can't, nobody can," he said, jumping up and down on the spot where they had been cutting.
There followed a rambling sound, and with a yell, Stacy Brown suddenly disappeared from sight. In place of the circle in which he had been standing was a black, ragged hole, from which particles of the mortar were still crumbling and rattling to the bottom of the pit.
"Are you there?" cried Kris Kringle, leaping to the spot, thrusting the lantern down through the opening. "Master Stacy!"
"Wow!" responded the boy from the depths.
"Did it hurt you?"
"How far did you fall?"
This and other questions were hurled at the fat boy, as his companions crowded about the opening.
"I'm killed. That'll answer all your questions," replied Stacy. "Hurry up! Get my remains out of this place."
The rays of the lantern disclosed a short stairway, built of the same material of which the house itself had been constructed.
Mr. Marquand forced himself past the guide and was down the steps in a twinkling. He was followed by the wondering Pony Rider Boys, Professor Zepplin and Kris Kringle in short order, for all crowded down through the narrow opening.
Chunky had hit the top step and rolled all the way down. He had scrambled to his feet and was rubbing his shins by the time his friends reached him. His clothes were torn and he was covered with dust.
"Fell down the cellar, didn't I?" he grinned.
But no one gave any heed to him now. Mr. Marquand had snatched at the lantern and was running from point to point of the chamber in which they found themselves. He was laboring under great excitement.
"Here's another opening," he shouted. "We haven't got to the bottom yet."
Another flight of stairs led to still another and smaller chamber below. Mr. Marquand let out a yell the moment he reached the bottom. The others rushed pell-mell after him.
There, with it's top just showing above the dirt was a long iron chest.
"Give me the maul!" shouted the excited treasure seeker.
He attacked the rusty iron fastenings; at last the cover yielded to his thunderous blows and falling on its edge, toppled over to the floor with a crash.
"Somebody's old clothes," chuckled Stacy, peering into the open chest.
The garments, priestly robes that lay at the top, fell to pieces the instant Mr. Marquand laid violent hands on them.
"Look! Look! Was I right or was I wrong?" he cried, beside himself with joy.
There, before their astonished eyes, lay a chest of gold— coins dulled by age, small nuggets and chunks of silver, all heaped indiscriminately in the treasure chest.
"I did it!" shouted Chunky. "I did it with my little feet! I fell in and discovered the treasure!"
The tongues of the Pony Rider Boys were suddenly loosened. Such a shout as they set up probably never had been heard before in the ancient adobe mansion of the Pueblos. Cheer after cheer echoed through the chambers and reached the ears of a dozen desperadoes who were skulking amid the sage brush without.
Professor Zepplin scooped up a handful of the coins and examined them under the lantern.
"Old Spanish coins," he informed them. "Pure gold. And look at these nuggets! Where do you suppose the Indians found them?"
"There are hidden mines in the State," informed Mr. Marquand. "Some of these days they will be discovered. I have been hunting for them myself, but without success. Boys, what do you think of it now? If it had not been for you I might never have seen this sight."
Their eyes were fairly bulging as they gazed at the heap of gold. Chunky squatted down scooping up a double handful and letting the coins run through his fingers. Then the other boys dipped in, laughing for pure joy, more because their adventure had borne fruit than for the love of the gold itself.
"Must be more'n a bushel of it," announced Stacy.
"Those old Franciscans must have been saving up for a rainy day. And it never rained here at all," suggested Ned humorously.
"Shall we count it?" asked Mr. Marquand.
"Just as you wish," replied the Professor.
"Were I in your place, Mr. Marquand, I should get the stuff out of here as soon as possible. You can't tell what may happen. I would suggest that we secure the treasure and be on our way at once. You will want to get it to a bank as quickly as possible. This is one of the things that cannot be kept quiet."
"You are right. Will somebody go over to the camp and get those gunny sacks of mine? I don't want to lose sight of my find for a minute. You know how I feel about it—not that I do not trust you. You know—"
"Surely we understand," smiled Tad.
"And you all have an interest in it—you shall share the treasure with me—"
"No, we don't," shouted the boys. "We've had more than a million dollars worth of fun out of it already."
"Certainly not," added the Professor.
"We'll discuss that later," said Mr. Marquand firmly. "Just now we must take care of what we have found. Who will get the bags?"
"We will," answered the boys promptly.
"No; you stay here. I'll get them," answered Kris Kringle. "Light me up the stairs so I don't break my neck in this old rookery."
One of the boys lighted the way to the next floor, then stepped back into the cellar, where Mr. Marquand was turning over the treasure in an effort to find out if the pile extended all the way to the bottom of the chest.
In the meantime Kris Kringle unbarred the door and threw it part way open. He did it cautiously, as if half expecting trouble.
He threw the door to with a bang, springing to one side, and dropping the bar back into place.
The reason for his sudden change of plans was that no sooner had the door opened than several thirty-eight calibre bullets were fired from the sage brush outside.
Kris Kringle waited to learn whether those in the cellar had heard the shots. But they had not. They were some distance below ground, and their minds were wholly taken up with the great treasure before them.
After a few moments the guide once more removed the bar, first having drawn his revolver in case of sudden surprise. Then he cautiously opened the door an inch or so.
At first nothing happened. The moonlit landscape lay as silent and peaceful as if there were not a human being on the desert.
There were six distinct flashes all at once and a rain of lead showered into the door.
Kris Kringle took a pot shot at one of the flashes, then slammed the door shut and barred it.
"Well; I hope that would get you," he muttered.
Hastily retracing his steps he called the party up to the second cellar.
"Did you fetch the sacks?" called Mr. Marquand.
"No, but I've fetched trouble. It's coming in sackfuls."
"What do you mean?"
"We're besieged."
"Besieged?" wondered the Professor.
"Yes; there's a crowd outside, and they've been trying to shoot me up. Must be some of your friends, Mr. Marquand."
"Lasar and Comstock? The scoundrels!" growled Mr. Marquand. "But we'll make short work of them."
"Not so easy as you think There are more than two out there—there's a crowd and they've got rifles. Our rifles are over in the camp. I've got a six-shooter and so have you, but what do they amount to against half a dozen rifles?"
"I'll talk to them, if I can get any place to make them hear," announced Mr. Marquand, starting up the stairs.
"I reckon there's a window on the second floor, but you'd better be careful that you don't get winged," warned the guide.
Mr. Marquand went right on, and the others followed. As the guide had said there was a small window on the floor above the ground, apparently the only one in the house.
Mr. Marquand hailed the besiegers.
"Who are you and what do you mean by shooting us up in this fashion?" he demanded.
"You ought to know who we are, Jim Marquand, and you know what we want!"
"Yes, I know you all right, Lasar, and I'll make you smart for this."
"The place is as much mine as it is yours," answered Lasar. "And I propose to take it! If you'll make an even divvy of what you have found, or expect to find, we'll go away and let you alone. If you don't we'll take the whole outfit."
"Take it, take it!" jeered Marquand. "You couldn't take it in a hundred years—not unless you used artillery."
"Then we'll starve you out," replied the man in the sage brush.
"Look out!" warned the guide.
Mr. Marquand sprang to one side just as a volley crashed through the opening, the bullets rattling to the floor after bounding back from the flint-like walls.
"I guess they've got you, Mr. Marquand. We can't hold out forever. If we had rifles we could pick them off by daylight. But when morning comes they'll draw back out of revolver range and plunk the first man who shows himself outside. Have you any title to this property?"
"Yes. I have bought up a hundred acres about here. The deeds are in my pocket. I guess nobody has a better title.".
"His title is all right," spoke up Professor Zepplin. "I made sure of that before I decided to come with Mr. Marquand."
"Then there's only one thing to be done."
"What's that?"
"Get a sheriff's posse and bag the whole bunch."
Mr. Marquand laughed harshly.
"If we were in a position to get a posse we should be able to get away without one. I think we had better go below. This is not a very safe place with this open window."
"I'll remain here."
"What for, Kringle?"
"Somebody's got to watch the front door to see that they don't play any tricks on us. It's clouding up, and if the night gets dark they'll try to get in."
"How far is it to a place where we could get a sheriff?" asked Tad, who had been thinking deeply.
"Hondo. Fifteen miles due east of here as the moon rises. Why?"
"If I were sure I could find my way, I think I might get some help," answered the lad quietly.
"You!" snapped Mr. Marquand, turning on him.
"If I had a rope. Perhaps I can do it without one."
"I'd like to know how?"
Mr. Marquand was inclined to treat the proposition lightly, believing that such a move as proposed by Tad Butler was an impossibility. Kris Kringle, however, was regarding the boy inquiringly. He knew that Tad had some plan in mind and that it was likely to be a good one.
"The rascals are all out in front of the house, aren't they?"
"Yes, Master Tad. There's no reason why they should be behind the house. They know we can't get out that way; because there is no opening on that side."
Tad nodded.
"Then I can do it."
"Tad, what foolish idea have you in mind now? I cannot consent to your taking any more chances."
"Professor, we are taking long enough chances as it is. Unless we are relieved soon, we shall be starved out and perhaps worse."
"What's your plan?" interrupted Kris Kringle.
"See that hole in the roof up there?" Tad pointed.
They had not seen it before, but they did now. A light suddenly dawned upon Kris Kringle.
"Boy, you are the only level-headed one in the outfit. You would have made a corking Indian fighter."
"I'm the Indian fighter," chimed in Stacy.
"You can boost me up to the hole and I'll go over the rear of the house, get to the camp and from there ride to Hondo."
Tad's three companions started a cheer, which the guide sternly put down.
"I can't consent to any such plan," decided the Professor sternly.
The rest reasoned with him until, finally, he did consent, though he knew the lad would be taking desperate chances. Tad understood that as well as the rest of them, but he was burning to be off.
Kris Kringle gave him careful directions as to how to get to the place.
"Take your rifle with you, if you can get it. After you get half a mile or a mile away shoot once. That will tell us you are all right."
"You can help me in getting away from here, if you will do some shooting to cover my escape," suggested Tad.
"That's a good idea," agreed the guide. "You wait on the roof until we begin to rake the sage with our revolvers. Then drop. Take a wide circuit, so that you won't stumble over the enemy."
Tad gave his belt a hitch, stuffed his sombrero under it and announced himself as ready.
The guide stepped under the hole. Tad quickly climbed to his shoulder and stood up like a circus performer. He could easily reach the roof with his hands. A second more and his feet were lifted from the shoulders of the guide. They saw the figure in the opening; then it disappeared.
A slight scraping noise was the only sound they heard.
Tad flattened himself out and wriggled along toward the rear of the roof. Peering over the edge he made sure that there was no one about. He then lay quietly waiting for the shooting to begin.
"Let 'em have it," directed Kris Kringle.
A sudden fusillade was emptied into the sage brush.
Tad swung himself over the edge of the roof, hung on for a few seconds, then dropped lightly to the ground.
The enemy answered the shots with a volley, and for a few moments a lot of ammunition was wasted while the odor of gunpowder assailed nostrils on both sides.
After that, the shooting died away. As the minutes lengthened into an hour, and no word of Tad's mission had been received, the defenders began to grow restless. They were under a double tension now. Mr. Marquand was pacing up and down the floor.
Suddenly, forgetful of the danger that lurked out there, he poked his head out of the window.
A sharppaton the stone window frame beside him, after the bullet had snipped off the tip of his left ear, caused Mr. Marquand to draw back suddenly. He stalked about the floor, holding a handkerchief to the wounded ear, "talking in dashes and asterisks," as Chunky put it.
Kris Kringle's face wore a grim smile. He was taking chances of being shot, every second now, but he insisted in holding his place at the side of the window so he could listen and watch.
A thin, fleecy veil covered the moon, but it was not dense enough to fully hide objects on the landscape.
"All keep quiet, now," warned Kris Kringle. "We should get a signal pretty soon."
"I'm afraid something has happened to the boy," muttered the Professor. Then all fell silent.
"There it goes!" exclaimed the guide in a tone of great relief.
The crack of a rifle afar off sounded clear and distinct.
"He's made it. Thank heaven!" breathed Mr. Marquand fervently.
Chunky leaped to the opening, swung his sombrero as he leaned out, and uttered a long, shrill "y-e-o-w!"
A bullet chipped the adobe at his side. Stacy ducked, throwing himself on the floor, sucking a thumb energetically.
"Wing you?" inquired Kris Kringle.
"Somebody burned my thumb," wailed the fat boy.
"It was a bullet that burned you. Served you right too. Somebody tie that boy up or he'll be killed," counseled the guide.
The besiegers could not have failed to hear the shot from Tad's rifle, but it did not seem to disturb them. They evidently did not even dream that one of the party had escaped their vigilance and that he was well on his way for assistance.
The wait from that time on was a tedious and trying one, though each felt a certain sense of elation that Tad Butler had succeeded in outwitting the enemy.
It was shortly after two o'clock in the morning when Kris Kringle espied a party of horsemen slowly encircling the adobe house. The riders were strung out far off on the plain. Those hiding in the sage in front of the house could not see the approaching horsemen.
"There they come," whispered Kris Kringle. "Begin shooting!"
The two men started firing, while the besiegers poured volley after volley through the window.
The posse at this, closed in at a gallop. Their rifles now began to crash.
In a few minutes it was all over. The sheriff's men surrounded the besiegers, placing every man of them under arrest. After this the officers quickly liberated the Pony Rider Boys. Three of the besiegers had been wounded. Among them, was the Mexican whom Tad had defeated in the tilting game a few days before.
When all was over, the boys hoisted Tad Butler on their shoulders and marched around the adobe house shouting and singing. Mr. Marquand decided to go back with the posse, using these men as a guard for his treasure. It was understood that the Pony Rider Boys were to follow the next morning. Before leaving, Mr. Marquand called the Professor aside.
"There is, on a rough estimate, all of sixty thousand dollars in the treasure chest. Had it not been for you and your brave boys I should have lost it. So, when you reach Hondo to-morrow, I shall take great pleasure in presenting to each of you a draft for two thousand dollars."
Professor Zepplin protested, but Mr. Marquand insisted, and he kept his word. After the posse, with their prisoners and the treasure, had started, the Pony Rider Boys, arm in arm, started off across the moonlit meadows toward their camp. It was their last night in camp. Their summer's journeyings had come to an end—a fitting close to their adventurous travels. Not a word did they speak until they reached the camp. There, they turned and gazed off over the plain which was all silvered under the now clear light of the moon.
"It has been a silver trail," mused Tad Butler.
"It has indeed," breathed his companions
"And we've reached the end of The Silver Trail," added the Professor, coming up at that moment. "To-morrow I'll breathe the first free breath that I've drawn in three months."
The boys circled slowly around him and joined hands. Then their voices rose on the mellow desert air to the tune of
"Home, Sweet Home."
A week later saw the wanderers back in Chillicothe. Their welcome was a warm one. Banker Perkins found his once ailing son now transformed into a sturdy young giant.
We shall meet them again in the next volume of this series—in a tale of surpassing wonders—published under the title: "THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE GRAND CANYON; Or, the Mystery of Bright Angel Gulch." It will be found to be by far the most interesting volume so far published about the splendid Pony Rider Boys.