Dry wood had been gathered and piled at hand, and some of this they soon arranged on the stones. Dry leaves served in the place of shavings. They were sheltered from the keen night air, but a fire would feel grateful enough, and one hastened to strike a match with numb fingers.
The leaves flamed up brightly, the wood caught fire with a pleasant crackling sound, and smoke began to roll upward. Then, of a sudden, one of the trio uttered a gasping exclamation of astonishment and startled terror, grasping the arm of another, and pointing toward one side of the Den. There, bolt upright and silent, sat a human figure, seeming to glare at them with glassy eyes.
So still was that figure that Crauthers, who had seen it first, thought it lifeless. It seemed like a person who had sought shelter there and had died, sitting straight up, with eyes wide open and staring. Was it a tramp?
No. As the fire rose still brighter they recognized the unbidden one. It was Miguel Bunol.
“The Spaniard!” exclaimed Stark.
“Spying on us!” burst from the lips of Crauthers, as he saw Bunol’s eyes move and realized the fellow was very much alive.
“Sure as fate!” agreed Hogan. “He is Arlington’s right-hand man, and he must be here as a spy.”
Bunol laughed softly, coldly.
“Don’t be fool all of you!” he said. “Bunol not a spy. Not much at all!”
“Confound you!” growled Crauthers, who seemed ready to leap on the Spanish lad. “What are you doing here, anyhow?”