“Ah, yes!—the caballero's horse. Of a certainty the other caballero had taken it!”
“The other caballero!” gasped Jeff.
“Si, senor. The one who arrived with you, or a moment, the very next moment, after you. 'Your friend,' he said.”
Jeff staggered against the porch, and cast one despairing reproachful look at Miss Mayfield.
“Oh, Jeff! Jeff! don't look so. I know I ought not to have kept you! It's a mistake, Jeff, believe me.”
“It's no mistake,” said Jeff hoarsely. “Go!” he said, turning to the vaquero, “go!—bring—” But his speech failed. He attempted to gesticulate with his hands, ran forward a few steps, staggered, and fell fainting on the ground.
“Help me with the caballero into the blue room,” said Miss Mayfield, white as Jeff. “And hark ye, Manuel! You know every ruffian, man or woman, on this road. That horse and those saddle-bags must be here to-morrow, if you have to pay DOUBLE WHAT THEY'RE WORTH!”
“Si, senora.”
Jeff went off into fever, into delirium, into helpless stupor. From time to time he moaned “Bill” and “the treasure.” On the third day, in a lucid interval, as he lay staring at the wall, Miss Mayfield put in his hand a letter from the company, acknowledging the receipt of the treasure, thanking him for his zeal, and inclosing a handsome check.
Jeff sat up, and put his hands to his head.