This was a mere slit in the hillside, barely large enough for him to enter. However, his pliant body enabled him to glide through, and standing in the entrance, he threw the light over the apartment.
It was empty, just as he had expected. It was unchanged, too—further evidence that there had been no one there since he had left. His spirits rose at every step, and his way was becoming certain.
This chamber was somewhat larger than the other, and was lighter, the chinks above being larger. It was also scantily furnished, and in the same manner as the first.
A pile of blankets lay in one corner, and were evidently long unused. A single gun stood by them—a rifle. Otherwise the room was empty.
Pedro, after satisfying himself as to other occupants, with his habitual energy began at once to work. Drawing his revolver, he hastily uncapped the tubes, then, lighted by his torch, commenced to sound the wall, the ceiling, the floor—in fact, everything which might conceal the treasure he knew was there.
Outside the sun still shone upon the bare plain, blinding with its heat the few small animals which stole about, the only moving objects on the plain.
The only moving objects? Not so; there was another one—a man riding a black horse. Several miles away from the hillock, he was coming, at a slow walk, from the south; going north and to the hillock.
An hour passed. Pedro was working steadily inside, at intervals muttering disjointed sentences. The solitary rider drew near, and halted close to the hillock.
He was dressed in a tight-fitting suit of buck-skin, and in his black, conical hat, a black plume drooped. Armed to the teeth, he was a desperate-appearing person. His face, bearing the marks of license to strong and evil passions, was pale in the extreme—even ghastly.
He halted before the entrance, and just then Pedro exclaimed below—he was excited about something. Then he rode round to the opposite side of the hillock, and drawing up, facing it, sat like a statue on his black horse.