"And what about the gold?"

"Ah, the gold! I'm beginning to think with my father that we shall never find the old temple, and that if we did we should be none the better for it. I don't think we want all that gold."

"Grapes sour?" said Chris dryly.

"N-no," replied Ned. "But there, what's the good of talking? We've come to find the gold, and we shall go on till we feel it's no good. I like what we're doing, though. We must stop here, of course, till the Indians are tired and have gone. I wish they would go."

"Yes, it makes it so horrible."

"Ah! Doesn't it? I don't mind shooting something that we want to eat.

But firing at them--Ugh!"

"Yes, it is horrid," said Chris; "but they're hardly men. Savage wretches! They seem to love killing."

"Have some more vulture," said Ned quietly. "There's all that piece of breast yet."

"Vulture!" said Chris, laughing.

"Well, didn't it taste bitter?"

"Yes, a little. It's one of those prairie hen things, of course."

"No, it was a fine fat c.o.c.k."

"Well, they call them prairie hens. It was, as you say, delicious."

"Well, finish it."

Chris shook his head, rose stiffly, and helped his companion to clear away.

"Now then," he said, "I'm not much disposed to walk to-day. It's just as if I'd strained one of the muscles or something up in my hip. I should like to go and sit out on the terrace. Haven't got the gla.s.s, have you?"

"Yes, it's there, in the lookout. You can't do better than take my place. There's a rifle too, and cartridges, in case the Indians show, and the stones are built-up with loop-holes so that you'll be safe from arrows if the brutes do come crawling up and chasing the scouting-party."

"What are you going to do?"

"Help you do nothing," said Ned, laughing.

He led the way, and Chris limped after him, to find one part of the terrace turned into a rough observatory with a stone seat, and the binocular and rifle lying ready as Ned had said.

"I can't see anything of our people, nor yet of the Indians," said Chris, after a good look round in different directions.

"Oh, no; they keep well hidden."

"No fear of their hiding in any of those cells or on the terraces across the valley, is there?"

"I dunno; they might," replied Ned; "but they couldn't send an arrow in here from that distance."

"But we could send bullets. That side's within range," said Chris thoughtfully.

"Oh yes, and it wouldn't be lucky for one of the scalpers to show himself, I can tell him; but I say, look at the animals. I went down to them this morning, and their coats are getting smooth already. The coa.r.s.e rich gra.s.s here suits them splendidly. If we stop here long they'll be growing fat."

Chris turned the gla.s.s upon the little drove of mules, which were grazing contentedly enough, and then changed his position to look at the ponies, which were keeping themselves aloof from their distant relatives, and cropping away with the thick gra.s.s right up to their knees.

"One--two--three--four--five--six," said Chris, by habit, counting the mustangs slowly.

"Hallo!" cried Ned. "Hurt one of your eyes?"

"Yes. It was when I came down with that ledge; I got both eyes full of dust and grit. Why?"

"Because you must be squinting," said Ned.

"Is this another joke?" said Chris, with the gla.s.s to his eyes.

"It's no joke," replied Ned, "not to be able to count properly. Try again."

"One--two--three--four--five--six," said Chris, counting slowly.

"Nonsense! Only five. One of your eyes don't go at all, seemingly."

"I can see them distinctly through the gla.s.s," cried Chris, with a touch of irritability in his tones.--"Why, Ned!"

"What's the matter?"

"There are six."

"Stuff!"

"There are, I tell you. Why, hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! My pony's there."

"What! You mean his ghost."

"Ghosts can't eat gra.s.s," shouted Chris wildly.

"Why not? Horses' ghosts would when they couldn't get corn."

"It is! It is!" cried Chris, with a sound like a sob in his throat, and certainly there were tears in his eyes as he handed the gla.s.s to his comrade. "Look! Look for yourself; it's my dear old mustang. Ah!

there! he's walking lame. And I thought he was dead--I thought he was dead!"

"It is, old chap," cried Ned, after a hurried glance. "He must have got here somehow and joined his mates in the night. I never noticed it, and no one else did, of course."

"Oh, Ned, this is good luck!"

"Good? It's glorious! Luck squared or cubed, or somethinged, up to the tenth power. Here, let's go down and see. Can you walk?"

"Walk?" cried Chris excitedly. "I feel as if I could run!"

"Get your rifle then; we mustn't stir without our popguns now. Why, I say, I never thought your mount was pure bred. His great-grandfather must have been a wildcat, a big one of the nine-lives breed, or he never could have come over that cliff, as you say, and lived. Perhaps it is his ghost, after all."