For at least a mile the golden trail zigzagged through the foothills. Finally it came out on a level stretch of ground, partly covered with a chaparral of greasewood, ironwood, and paloverde.
Frank had been noticing for several minutes that the single set of burro tracks had grown into a veritable clutter of hoofprints. A good many of the prints were large enough to suggest that horses had passed over the golden trail.
Merry and Clancy were discussing the additional tracks as they wheeled out upon the flat bit of desert. They could make nothing of them, and the anxiety they caused was presently lost in another discovery: They had reached the end of the line of ore!
Try as hard as they could, not another piece of wire-gold ore could they find. The thief, it appeared, must have discovered the hole in the bag, at that point, and have repaired it.
Still searching, and hoping against hope, the boys presently came close to the edge of the chaparral. Then, with stunning abruptness, a voice shouted from among the bushes.
"Now, then, pards, make a surround!"
It was a familiar voice. Merry as not so startled that he failed to realize that.
The chaparral shook and rustled with the movements of horsemen. In a moment four riders plunged into view and drew rein on each side and in front and rear of Merriwell and Clancy. The surprised lads recognized the fellows at once.
They were some of the cowboy athletes from the Bar Z Ranch—Blunt, the Cowboy Wonder, and his particular cronies, Ben Jordan, Bandy Harrison, and Aaron Lloyd.
"Whoop!" exulted Blunt, his spirited black horse rearing under his firm grip on the reins. "Look who's here, pard! It's Merriwell, by glory! Chip Merriwell, the son of his dad! Merriwell, the silk-stocking athlete! We're diamonds in the rough, pards, but he's cut and polished until he dazzles the eyes. Well, well! What do you think of this?"