He could not answer those questions offhand. But he had a large bump
of curiosity about some things. Otherwise he would not have been where
he was that afternoon. With his boot he swept the ashes aside. The
ground beneath them was a little higher than it was in the immediate
neighborhood. Why should the bandits have built their fire on a small
hillock when there was level ground adjacent? There might be a reason
underneath that little rise of ground or there might not. Mr. Dingwell
got out his long hunting-knife, fell on his knees, and began to dig at
the center of the spot where the campfire had been.

The dirt flew. With his left hand he scooped it from the hole he was
making. Presently the point of his knife struck metal. Three minutes
later he unearthed a heavy gunnysack. Inside of it were a lot of
smaller sacks bearing the seal of the Western Express Company. He had
found the gold stolen by the Rutherford gang from the Pacific Flyer.

Dave was pleased with himself. It had been a good day's work. He
admitted cheerfully that there was not another man in New Mexico who
could have pulled off successfully the thing he had just done. The
loot had been well hidden. It had been a stroke of genius to cache it
in the spot where the camp-fire was afterward built. But he had
outguessed Jess Tighe that time. His luck had sure stood up fine. The
occasion called for a demonstration.

He took off his broad-rimmed gray hat. "Three rousing cheers, Mr.
Dingwell," he announced ceremoniously. "Now, all together."

Rising to his toes, he waved his hat joyously, worked his shoulders
like a college cheer leader, and gave a dumb pantomime of yelling. He