before he returned to the ashes of the dead fire. Certain facts he had
discovered. One was that the party which had camped here had split up
and taken to the hills by different trails instead of as a unit. Still
another was that so far as he could see there had been no digging in or
near the grove.

It was raining more definitely now, so that the distant peaks were
hidden in a mist. In the lee of the aspens it was still dry. Dingwell
stood there frowning at the ashes of the dead campfire. He had had a
theory, and it was not working out quite as he had hoped. For the
moment he was at a mental impasse. Part of what had happened he could
guess almost as well as if he had been present to see it. Sweeney's
posse had given the fugitives a scare at Dry Gap and driven them back
into the desert. In the early morning they had tried the hills again
and had reached Lonesome Park. But they could not be sure that Sweeney
or some one of the posses sent out by the railroad was not close at
hand. Somewhere in the range back of them the pursuers were combing
the hills, and into those very hills the bandits had to go to disappear
in their mountain haunts.

Even before reaching the park Dingwell had guessed the robbers would
separate here and strike each for individual safety. But what had they
done with the loot? That was the thing that puzzled him.

They had divided the gold here. Or one of them had taken it with him
to an appointed rendezvous in the hills. Or they had cached it, One of
these three plans had been followed. But which?

Dingwell rubbed the open fingers of one hand slowly through his
sunburnt thatch of hair. "Doggone my hide, if it don't look like they