light of the few candles, five men were resting in various attitudes
of ease as they discussed the events of the night and tried to compute
their profits. They were secure, for Manuel, having by this time put
away the ghost and megaphone, was on duty at the mouth of the crevice,
and he was as sensitive to danger as a hound.

"The risk is not much and the profits are large," remarked Pedro, in
Spanish. "We must burn a candle for the repose of the soul of Carlos
Martinez. It is he that made our plans safe. And a candle is not much
when we--"

"Hands up!" said a quiet voice, followed by grim commands. The Mexicans
jumped as if stung by a scorpion, and could just discern two of the
rowdy gringo cow-punchers in the heavy shadows of the opposite wall, but
the candle light glinted in rings on the muzzles of their six-shooters.
Had Manuel betrayed them? But they had little time or inclination for
cogitation regarding Manuel.

"Easy there!" shouted Red, and Pedro's hand stopped when half way to his
chest. Pedro was a gambler by nature, but the odds were too heavy and he
sullenly obeyed the command.

"Stick 'em up! Stick 'em up! Higher yet, an' hold 'em there," purred
a soft voice from the other end of the room, where Dick Martin smiled
pleasantly upon them and wondered if there was anything on earth harder
to pound good common sense into than a "Greaser's" head. His gun was
blue, but it was, nevertheless, the most prominent part of his make-up,
even if the light was poor.

One of the Mexicans reached involuntarily for his gun, for he was a