"I chipped in because I saw you were a white man, and you were hard pressed by a villainous crew who must be bandits. I believe in white men standing by white men."

"Say, thet's a great motter, young man. 'White men stand by white men.'

As fer me, I don't like a Greaser none whatever."

As he said this, Bushnell gave Pedro another searching look, and the guide scowled at the ground in a sullen way.

"Now," continued the Westerner, "w'at I wants ter know next is w'at yer knows about Jack Burk. We had a place all agreed on ter meet w'en I returned, but he wusn't thar, an' I hed ter go it alone. That's why I'm yere alone."

"It was not Burk's fault that he did not meet you."

"Say you so? Then lay a straight trail fer me ter foller."

"He was sick."

"Is that whatever? Wa'al, derned ef I could seem ter cut his trail anywhar I went, an' I made a great hustle fer it."

"He was in the hut where you saw us."

"Wa'al, dern my skin! Ef I'd knowed thet, I'd made a straight run fer thet yere ranch, bet yer boots!"

"He came to the door, and shouted to you."

"You don't tell me thet! An' I didn't hear him! Wa'al, wa'al! Whar wuz my ears? Whar is he now?"

"Dead."

Bushnell reeled.

"Is he that?" he gasped, recovering. "An' I didn't get to see him! Say, this clean upsets me, sure as shootin'!"

The man seemed greatly affected.

"Poor old Jack!" he muttered. "We've made many a tramp together, an' we struck it rich at last, but he'll never git ther good of thet thar strike."

Then he seemed to remember that he was watched by several eyes, and he straightened up, pa.s.sing his hand over his face.

"Jack shall hev a big monumint," he cried. "Tell me whar my old pard is planted."

"That is something I do not know, Mr. Bushnell."

The man was astonished.

"Don't know? Why, how's thet?"

Frank told the entire story of Burk's death and mysterious disappearance, to which Bushnell listened, with breathless interest.

When it was finished, the man cried:

"Thet thar beats me! I don't understand it, none whatever."

"No more do I," confessed Frank. "There is no doubt but Burk was dead, and the corpse did not walk away of its own accord. It was my intention to investigate the mystery, but later events prevented."

Frank then explained about the kidnaping of Professor Scotch by the bandits.

While the boy was relating this, Bushnell was closely studying the guide's face, as revealed by the firelight. Frank noted that a strange look seemed to come into the eyes of the Westerner, and he appeared to be holding himself in check.

When this explanation was finished, Bushnell asked:

"And you are on your way ter Huejugilla el Alto with ther hope of rescuin' ther professor?"

"We are," replied Frank.

"You pet my life," nodded Hans.

"This is the guide who was recommended to you in Zacatecas?"

"Yes."

"You trust him fully?"

"We are obliged to do so."

"Wa'al, boys, ef this yere critter can't take yer straight ter Pacheco, n.o.body kin."

"What do you mean?"

"Jest this!" cried Bushnell, explosively; "this yere Greaser galoot w'at yer calls Pedro is n.o.body but Ferez!"

"Who is Ferez?"

"He's Pacheco's lieutenant!"

Frank uttered a cry of amazement and anger, wheeling quickly on the Mexican, his hand seeking the b.u.t.t of a revolver.

But the dark-faced rascal seemed ready for such an exposure, for, with a yell of defiance, he dropped behind his horse, and the animal shot like a rocket from the firelight into the shadows which lay thick on the desert.

Bushnell opened up with a brace of revolvers, sending a dozen bullets whistling after the fellow, in less than as many seconds.

At the first shot, Hans Dunnerwust fell off his horse, striking on his back on the sand, where he lay, faintly gurgling:

"Uf you don'd shood der odder vay, I vos a tead man!"

"Don't let him escape with a whole skin!" shouted Frank, as he began to work a revolver, although he was blinded by the flashes from Bushnell's weapon so that he was forced to shoot by guess.

Ferez seemed to bear a charmed life, for he fled straight on into the night, sending back a mocking shout of laughter. From far out on the waste, he cried:

"Bah, Gringo dogs! You cannot harm me! I will see you again, _Americanoes_. This is not the last."

With an angry exclamation of disappointment and anger, Bushnell flung his empty revolvers on the sand at his feet.