"Any ideas on that subject, José?" asked McKay.
"Only a guess, Capitan. I was not here five years ago, and I knew nothing of Schwandorf then. But I know he always schemed for his own good and overlooked no chances. So perhaps, finding this man not dead, but darkened in mind by his bullet, he thought he might be able to use him in some way at some future time. A dead man is not useful to anyone. If this man should never become valuable he could live and die forgotten among savages, where he could do Schwandorf no harm. If worth something he could be found again."
"Cold-blooded Prussian efficiency," nodded McKay. Then he spoke directly to Rand.
"Since you're mentally sound," he went on, "we may as well tell you how you happen to be among us. We three—Merry, Tim, and I—came here to find you. The settlement of the Dawson estate hinges on you."
"On me? How? I've no claim to it. Paul Dawson, Uncle Phil's son—"
"Is dead, too. Killed in action in the Argonne, You're next in line."
McKay watched him keenly. So did Knowlton. The half-expected jubilance did not come.
"So Paul's gone," was Rand's reply. "Hard luck. Suppose I hadn't been found—then what?"
"In due time the money would go to a school. Boys' school."
"Orphans? Blind? Cripples?"